


Revolution in the Head

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Arguing, Awkwardness, Crack Treated Seriously, Explicit Sexual Content, First Dates, Flirting, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Injury, Love Confessions, M/M, Mages vs. Templars, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Protests, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smoking, bad timing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-01 23:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10202792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: The political landscape in Thedas is changing, and Alistair must find which side he stands for.  But will the presence of a handsome elf make his decision easier, or harder?(And yes.  Thedouble entendrewas completely intended.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Earlgreyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earlgreyer/gifts).



> My dearest, darling Earl, thank you for your donation, and for your suggestion on what I could write for you, and for everything that you do. You truly are a star, and I love you to pieces.
> 
> This work is still evolving, so tags may change - I've put in all the ones I can think of for now, but the ones which are applicable will be mentioned at the start of the chapter. And while this is a work which focusses on the trajectory of Alistair and Zevran's relationship in this weird little 'verse, there are several others which are inferred (strongly or otherwise) in the body of the story. As with the tags, I'll mention applicable ships (no matter how implied they are) at the start of the chapter.

“I feel… weird about this,” Alistair mumbles, and Surana arches an eyebrow at him, her hands on her hips.  “Yeah?” she grins, “And what exactly is making you feel weird?  The magic thing?”

 

“Uh… no...” Alistair hazards, and shakes his head, glancing at the protesters assembling.  “It’s just that… I’ve never done this before.”

“Never  _protested_?   _Anything?!_  Al, fuck, you are _such_ a Chantry boy!”  Surana laughs, swatting him on the arm.  He grins at her and rubs the spot, and she rolls her eyes.  “First time for everything, Ali-baby,” she says laughingly, glancing up at him, her expression shifting, becoming serious.  “Look.  It’s important.  You know that, right?”

“Yeah…” he tells her slowly, frowning in concentration.  She sighs, raising her eyebrows.  “And it’s even more important that people like you are here.  You know _that_ , yeah?”

 

“Uh…” Alistair murmurs and then nods.  “Yes?  I think?  Because… I’m… not a mage?”

“Yup,” Surana smiles, “People like you start showing up, they have to start taking us seriously.  Oh!”  She grins, bouncing up onto her tiptoes and waving, “There’s Morrigan!   _Morrigan!  Over here!_ ”

Alistair grimaces and rubs the back of his neck, looking away from the direction in which Surana is waving.  Morrigan.  Figures she’d be here.  Her whole  _life_ is a protest, one big loud complaint.  It’s not that Alistair doesn’t see that she doesn’t have a few things worth complaining about - it’s the constant litany that he finds irritating.  Surana huffs in annoyance and drops her hand.  “She didn’t see me,” she groans, glancing up at Alistair again.  “Look, you stay here, I’ll be right back.  Save my spot, ‘kay?  I wanna be right up at the front.”

 

“What if…” Alistair begins, but Surana is running through the crowd, expertly dodging people who laugh and joke nervously, gathered together in little knots.  He sighs, a short, sharp breath as he looks around himself.  How does everyone here seem to know each other?  A blond elf catches his eye, and he feels himself blush as the man winks at him, grinning.  Alistair looks away - up at the sky, a uniform grey, then over at a group of young humans carrying placards emblazoned with slogans.   _Mage Rights Now!_ and _Mage Rights or Mage Fights!_ seem to be the most popular, and the demanding tone makes Alistair frown slightly.  

 

Maker, what is he doing here?  How in the Void did Surana manage to talk him into this?  He glances nervously at a Guard cruiser parked a little further up the road from the starting point of the march.  Though Surana had assured him that the presence of the Guard was just there to marshal people and to head off trouble before it began, Alistair had his doubts.  All over Fereldan and the Free Marches, even in Orlais, there had been protests by mages during this long, dry summer.  For years now, governments all over Thedas had been slowly pulling back reforms on the Circle system, putting in their place repressive legal changes.  It had begun in Orlais, with the passing of an act preventing known mages from travelling freely; protests and counter-protests, which sometimes got ugly.  In Val Fermin, in Starkhaven too, people had been severely injured - in Kirkwall and Val Royeaux, people had died when the Guard got between pro-mage protesters and those who aligned themselves with the anti-mage groups.

 

He sighs, and glances at the cruiser again.  Alistair doesn’t know which way the cops would swing on the issue - they’re supposed to be there to protect all citizens, after all - but some little voice within him reminds him that under the uniform there are people, prone to the same poor judgement, bigotry and bias as everyone else.  He looks away from the cruiser, still frowning slightly, and sees the elf grinning at him again.  Perplexed, he half-grins back, purely on reflex, then feels his eyes widen as the man begins to amble over.

 

Shit.   _That wasn’t an invitation!_ Alistair wants to blurt, but his tongue is suddenly in knots.  He’s… really handsome, like, _really handsome_ , he seems suave and confident and well-dressed and oh Maker, are those  _tattoos_?  Alistair swallows hard.  The man smiles at him, and his eyes narrow slightly before he says, “Hello.  My name is Zevran.  Do you have someone to walk with?”

“Uh… yes.  Uh, my friend, my friend is… coming back.  Yes.”  Maker, he sounds like a fool, but he can’t seem to make his mouth work properly.  He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and frowns.  The other man arches an eyebrow as he gazes up at Alistair, who cannot for the life of him figure out why he feels so utterly flummoxed.  “She’s over there,” he mutters, pointing vaguely off in the direction that Surana had gone.  Zevran nods.

 

“I see!  Well, no, I don’t.”  He grins, “It is hard to find anyone in this crowd, no?”  Zevran cocks his head, looks at Alistair appraisingly then smiles, “Since I seem to have lost the people I came with also, would you mind if I attached myself to you?”  He smirks, “Not literally, of course!  But safety in numbers is always a good idea at this sort of thing.  And you seem like the sort of person one could really feel…” his eyes narrow again, and the smirk turns slightly wicked, “Safe with.”

Alistair’s lips draw into a line and he shrugs, affecting a nonchalance he does not feel.  “Sure,” he says through gritted teeth, trying to ignore how his cheeks are so hot now they feel like they might be on fire.  Zevran’s mouth quirks, gesturing to Alistair’s arm.  “I see you are an old hand at this.”

“What?  No.  No, not me, I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.  Oh, you mean the…”  He gestures down to the numbers in black ink, scrawled along his forearm, “No,” he repeats, “That’s Surana’s doing.  She’s my friend, the one I came with?  She said it was better to have the numbers for legal people and not need them than need them and not have them.”  He sighs, and murmurs, “What have I gotten myself into?”

 

Zevran laughs.  “You will be fine,” he murmurs, then cocks his head quizzically, “This… friend.  She is not… a _girlfriend_?”

“No, I’m single,” Alistair blurts, then narrows his eyes, “Why?”

Zevran shrugs, “Just wondering,” he says casually, then smiles at Alistair.  It’s a winning smile, a bit wicked perhaps, but infectious - Alistair smiles back, his heart beating a little faster.  He really is handsome, this elf, and it’s been a long time since anyone’s flirted with him this obviously.  Alistair takes a deep breath, frowns and clears his throat.  Desperately, he reaches for something to say - maybe he should ask where Zevran comes from?  His accent is interesting, but just as Alistair opens his mouth, there is a loud shout and cheering as a grinning, dark-haired human marches out the front of the crowd, waving a bullhorn.  The man is closely followed by a tall human with long red-gold hair, tied carefully back into a scrappy bun on the back of his head.  “Right!” the dark-haired man yells, the bullhorn squealing in protest.  “Everyone get ready!  Stick with your buddy if you’ve got one! If you don’t have one, bloody find one!  We watch out for each other!”  Alistair feels his stomach drop a little as he watches the guard leaning against the cruiser talk quickly into his comm, and hurry into the driver’s seat.  He swallows again and then looks down as he feels someone crush themselves up against his arm.  “Ugh, thanks for saving my place,” Surana grumps sarcastically, elbowing Alistair as she looks at Zevran, pushing in between them.  “Who’s this then?”

 

Zevran grins at her and bows slightly, telling her his name as the crowd begin to move around them, the man at the front with the bullhorn walking backwards as he continues to yell instructions.  There’s an air of expectation, of excitement almost, and Alistair cannot help smiling nervously at Zevran over the top of Surana’s head.  It feels like the start of an adventure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which meetings are met and invitations given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Flirting, Mages & Templars, Fluff, Smoking (mention), pretty much be assured that awkwardness of some description happens at every point from here on...  
> Ship tags: Fenris x m!mage!Hawke x Anders [implied at this stage, more later]

Alistair looks around the derelict community hall.  This is where the march had ended up, and now they are mostly milling about waiting on the speakers to commence.  He still feels awkward, as if he has no right to be there.  All his life he’s been on the conservative side of things - or maybe apathetic is a more accurate description.  It’s not as if he doesn’t care, though.  More that… he never really realised that there could be anything other than the status quo, and it’s only been a recent revelation that perhaps the government didn’t know best after all.  It was Surana who got him off his arse - of course it was.  He’d met her through work, and they’d become firm friends.   He glances at her, grins a little at the way she is making Morrigan roll her eyes and sighs, “Hey, I’ll be right back.  Bathroom.”

 

Surana nods, barely losing the flow of her words, still gesticulating upwards as she talks with Morrigan.  Alistair stands still for a moment, looking around, then spots a little sign and heads off toward the back of the hall.  It’s actually pretty crowded in here, everyone kind of hyped up after the march - but it’s a good energy, not in the least threatening.  Alistair spots a white-haired elf talking to the dark-haired human from earlier, the one who had been leading the march; the elf seems annoyed about something, but the human is laughing.  He makes it to the shoddy little bathroom and joins the queue outside, looking at the posters which are tacked carelessly onto the white-painted plasterboard.  A pottery class, ew, no thanks… an Antivan cultural dance group, that sounds interesting, maybe he’d…

“Hello again, my friend!” says a voice from beside Alistair, and he looks to his left to see the blond elf (oh Maker, no, he’s forgotten his name!) grinning up at him.  

“Hey,” Alistair says nervously, and runs a hand through his hair.  “I’m glad you found your friends.”

“Well,” the elf tells him, as he leans nonchalantly against the wall, folding his arms, “I am glad of it as well - though it was cheering to know that you were reluctant to abandon me, even so.”  He cocks his head thoughtfully, then leans closer to Alistair, “How was your first time?”

 

Alistair blinks.  “My... my what?”  He feels heat creep up his neck, then rolls his eyes at himself.  “Oh.  Yeah.  It was fine.”  The elf’s mouth quirks, sliding into a smirk, and suddenly, Alistair remembers: “Zevran!  That’s your name!”

Zevran laughs.  It’s a nice laugh, open, honest, and Alistair, in spite of feeling a little foolish, finds himself smiling.  Zevran looks at him and grins.  “It is indeed!  A most excellent feat of memory,  _ Alistair _ .  You see?” the grin turns a little predatory, and Zevran cocks his head, “It would seem I am not the only one who is unforgettable.”

 

Alistair clears his throat, knowing he is blushing, and yet powerless to stop it.  Instead of succumbing to his natural instinct to frown and brush it off, he nods firmly. “Yeah.  It’s your tattoos.  They’re… distinctive.”

“Ah! A master of the backhanded compliment, I see,” Zevran smiles, his fingers going to the two lines on his cheek.  “Well, I am a tattoo artist.  So I will take your compliment with the good grace it was no doubt intended.”

“Uh.  Yeah,” Alistair says, shuffling forwards with the line.  There is an awkward silence for a moment or two, then Zevran blinks at him and raises an eyebrow.  “I am sorry, Alistair.  I did not mean to make you feel bad.”

“No, no,” Alistair blusters, “I don’t…”

Zevran puts a hand lightly on his arm, looking at him.  His silvery-grey eyes catch the low light, and Alistair catches his breath, stuttering into silence.  Zevran regards him quietly as he narrows his eyes.  Then, softly, he asks, “Alistair, what are you afraid of?”

 

It’s too fast.  Not only that, but it’s too much, too personal, too…  _ accurate _ , part of his mind states grimly, and he bats the thought away.  He shakes his head, opening his mouth to deny it, when a woman further down the queue moans, “Are you going, mate?  I’m  _ busting _ here!”

 

“Oh, uh, sorry!” Alistair calls, and slips into the stall.  He does what he needs to do, hands on automatic pilot as his mind races.  He’s been told before that he’s an easy study - its never done him any favours, the fact that he can’t seem to shut his emotions out of his face.  The fact of it is, he  _ is _ afraid.  He’s afraid of getting entangled with this cause of Surana’s, a cause which he knows is right but doesn’t feel like he can be much use to.  He’s afraid of the situation he can see brewing between the mages and the mundane - afraid that it’s going to get ugly and people will be stuck in the middle.  But more than that, and more immediate, is the fear of that look in Zevran’s clear grey eyes, and of how it had made Alistair feel.  He’s not good at wanting things.  And how can he know he wants Zevran with such clarity, when they’ve barely exchanged an afternoon’s conversation?

 

His hand hesitates on the lock, ready to twist it open.  He’ll just have to try and avoid Zevran.  It’d be easier.  And… and he’s probably a jerk, really, that smooth accent, those flirtatious looks.  He’s probably the  _ love ‘em and leave ‘em _ type - and Alistair knows he doesn’t want that.   _ You don’t know that that’s what he’s like _ , something whispers in the back of his mind, and he scowls in confusion.  “Hey, is this thing on?” laughs an amplified voice from the main part of the hall, making Alistair jump.  He grins, feeling stupid, twists the latch around and pulls the door open, glad when Zevran is not there.  It  _ is _ easier this way - for them both.  Because no doubt, if he  _ did _ manage to get past his stupid, bumbling mouth, and his crippling shyness, if he  _ did _ manage to somehow…  _ woo _ … Zevran… what on earth would he do with him?  No.  He’ll find Surana, make his excuses and go.   _ If it’s so easy, why do you feel so bad _ ? he asks himself, and shoves his hands into his pockets, ignoring the regret already twisting within.

 

The crowd is packed tightly now, probably more people in the little hall than the fire safety regulations permit.  “...not exactly a Templar trait,” the amplified voice laughs again, and the crowd laugh with it.  Alistair turns, blinking up at the man on the little make-shift stage - it’s the dark-haired man from the march again.  He must be some kind of leader, because they’re all hanging on his every word.  He’s got a good way of speaking, keeping the crowd fixated on him with a half-joking tone to his words, one hand moving through the air as the other supports the microphone.  Alistair scans the hall and spots Morrigan.  He makes a face, but knows that that’s where Surana will be, so he heads in that direction.

 

“Hey,” he mutters into Surana’s ear, and she turns, beaming up at him.  

“Al!  Flames, guy, you piss for  _ days _ ,” she murmurs, then chuckles quietly, even as she directs her gaze back to the front of the room.  “Unless you were gettin’ it on with that cute blond from the march.  Nice.”  She smirks, and waves her hand, frowning at him mock-sternly when he tries to reply.  “Shh, I’m listening to Hawke.”

Alistair sighs and shifts from foot-to-foot, folding his arms over his chest, deeply uncomfortable.  Morrigan looks over her shoulder and gives him the evils, and he pokes his tongue out at her when she turns around again.  He looks around at the crowd, then tries to get into what the speaker is talking about.  “...not about being a mage,” the man on stage, Hawke, Surana had called him, is telling the crowd, “It’s about treating people like  _ people _ \- which shouldn’t be much of a fucking ask, should it?”

“Kids, Tal,” the red-head standing behind Hawke mutters, loud enough for it to catch in the microphone, and Hawke laughs a “Sorry, folks!” to the crowd, who mostly laugh along.  The red-haired man looks tired, Alistair thinks, and he then looks around the room, wondering where Zevran got to.  Why does he feel so guilty about skipping out?  He barely knows the guy.  In fact, he doesn’t know him at all.  He bites his lip quickly, then bends once more to Surana’s ear. 

“Hey, I’m going to take off, alright?” he murmurs, and Surana turns with her eyebrows raised.  “I… have to get to the market.  You know.  Bread.  Milk.  Uh… Food stuff.”

“Oh.  Sure,” Surana nods, frowning slightly, then shrugs.  “See you Monday, then.  Thanks for coming.”

 

Alistair nods, puts his hands into his pockets again and smiles, seeing that her attention is well and truly diverted back to the knot of people on the stage.  He turns, pushing his way out of the crowd, back toward the door.  Keeping his eyes lowered as much as he can, he murmurs quiet  _ thank you’s _ to the people that move out of his way, one part of his mind hoping against hope that Zevran doesn’t see him, the other praying that he does.  Alistair reaches the door and pushes it open, stepping out into the cool autumn air, and sighs with relief.

 

The door closes quietly behind him.  Alistair takes a deep breath in, smelling hot tar seal, the exhaust from a passing car, cigarette smoke.  He pauses, looking at the golden light of the dying afternoon, and a soft smile passes over his face.  There is a chuckle to his left and he turns, blinking as Zevran crushes a cigarette under the heel of his boot.  “Leaving?  So soon?” Zevran asks, and laughs a little, “Was it Hawke’s speech?  He always does go on a little too long for my liking.  Or… was it me?”

“Uh…”  But he can’t think of an excuse fast enough, has to leave the silence to stretch.  Zevran smiles, narrows his eyes a little and walks slowly toward Alistair, his hands out in a placating gesture.

“Alistair.  Alistair?”  He laughs a little, tilting his head, the smile widening, “It was me.  I knew it!”  He sighs, rather happily, Alistair thinks, and then Zevran is looking across the road as the setting sun blazes across the broad windows of the cafes and shops opposite the hall.  “It would seem I have not lost my touch.”

“No,” Alistair mumbles doggedly, “It wasn’t you.  It was… y’know.  I have to go… to the supermarket.”

“The supermarket!” Zevran beams, gesturing forward, begins to walk.  Alistair tags alongside him and Zevran says, “Well, if I might make so bold as to accompany you?  If you are going this way, that is?”

“Sure,” Alistair nods, then shugs.  “It’s a free country.”

“An interesting concept,” Zevran muses, as they walk side by side down the street.  He adjusts his stride to step over a tiny violet which grows out of a crack in the concrete, and Alistair smiles a little at the gesture.  “It is, as you say, a free country.  But how long for?  And for whom?  Some freedoms are not very free - and the maintenance of all freedoms always comes at a cost.”  He looks at Alistair thoughtfully, putting his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.  “You are not a mage, am I correct?”

 

Alistair nods.  “And you mentioned that this was your first protest, that you were there with a friend.  If it is not too personal a question… Alistair, why did you come today?”

“It was right,” he answers simply, then frowns, wondering if he sounds stupid.  After a pause, in which Zevran seems to be waiting for him to continue, Alistair clears his throat and says, “It was just the right thing to do.  And… I suppose… I mean, I like Surana.  My friend.  And I… well, I don’t like Morrigan, not really.  She’s a… well, anyway.  But I do like Wynne - she’s a woman I used to work with, she retired last year.  I don’t know that many mages, but I like the ones that I know.  I… I mean, I understand that maybe sometimes magic is dangerous.  But… that’s  _ magic _ , not  _ mages. _  None of the mages I know would do anything like that.  It’s not fair to lock them up, or treat them badly because of something they can’t help.  I didn’t….”  _ always feel that way _ , is on the tip of his tongue, but he stops, biting the inside of his cheek and scowling at the pavement before glancing quickly at Zevran.

 

Zevran arches an eyebrow and gives Alistair a look of appraisal.  They have come to a busy intersection, and the traffic lights change as they arrive, moving from red to green, sending the lines of vehicles into motion.  Alistair looks ahead, watching for the walk signal, then glances at Zevran again - he is still staring up at Alistair, that look on his face.  Alistair shifts, smiles in confusion, then asks, “What?”

“Nothing,” Zevran says quickly, then takes a deep breath.  He frowns a little, looking out at the traffic, then turns quickly and says, “Alistair, would you like to come for a drink?  Once you have finished your shopping?”

“Yeah,” Alistair says, his mouth replying before his brain had fully engaged, and he blinks and swallows hard.  “Um.  Yes?  Um.”

“I am glad to hear you sounding so very certain about it,” Zevran grins, then chuckles.  “Well, then.  Perhaps you would like to meet over there -” Zevran points to a small bistro on the opposite corner, “At eight?”

Alistair nods, and Zevran’s smile widens for a moment.  And in that moment, he looks gentle, and sincere, that Alistair smiles back.  “Alright then.  Yeah.  That sounds… that sounds good.”

 

“Excellent,” Zevran beams, cocking his head and regarding Alistair with eyes that sparkle.  “I will see you then.  Enjoy the supermarket.”  

“I will,” Alistair tells him, and Zevran winks at him, then turns, heading back the way they had come.  The electronic beeping which accompanies the walk signal chimes, and Alistair starts crossing the road.  He looks back quickly, sees Zevran’s figure still walking in the opposite direction, and grins, feeling nervous and unsure and very, very pleased.  “Eight,” he mutters, and nods.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which drinks are drunk and things are said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: First dates, Awkwardness

It’s quarter to eight, and Alistair stops pacing to stare at the clock, wondering how it got so late so fast.  “Fuck it,” Cullen mutters bitterly from the kitchen, then appears in the doorway, sucking his finger.  He stands there, regarding Alistair seriously for a moment, then withdraws the bleeding digit to say, “Aren’t you off out?”

 

“Yeah.  Yes.”  Alistair runs both hands through his hair and blows out a long breath.  “Yes.  As soon as I stop feeling like I’m going to throw up.”

“You’ll be fine,” Cullen soothes, and Alistair cannot help it - he rolls his eyes.  

“You’re one to talk,” he grimaces, resuming his pacing again.  “You’re good with people.  All brooding mystique and your hair does that nice curly thing and you’re smart and…”

“And I’m not the one going on the date.  Anyway, didn’t he ask  _ you _ ?” Cullen reminds him, then shakes his head sadly, “But if you’re too much of a wimp…”

“I’m not a wimp!” Alistair blusters, scowling at Cullen, who smirks.  

“Well, go on then!” He says, gesturing at the door, “Actions speak louder than words and all that.  Go get ‘em.”

 

Alistair takes a deep breath, glancing at Cullen, who raises an eyebrow and shrugs.  “Fine,” Alistair says, then mutters, “Hope you get lemon juice in your cut.”

Cullen laughs, and the sound follows Alistair as he opens the door, steps out onto the street, and closes it behind him.

 

He tries not to let himself think, instead observing the people on the bus with him.  In this way the time passes, though when he thinks back on the journey, he finds he cannot remember a single face, a single detail.  And all too soon, he alights from the open doors, staring at the facade of the bistro as the bus hisses loudly, then roars away.   _ Maker _ , he scolds himself, rubbing his sweating palms on his jeans,  _ Stop being such a baby!  Three steps, look around, if he’s not there, then go.  See?  Easy. _  Before he can think further on it, that is exactly what he does - takes the three steps up to the entrance of the bistro, pushes open the door and walks in.

 

The place is crowded, loud with conversation and laughter.  Alistair scans the bar perfunctorily, then starts in alarm as someone puts a hand on his thigh.  “Whoa there, stretch!” says a grinning dwarven woman, large black tattoos over her face, a bright, neat apron around her waist, her black shirt well pressed.  “Down here!  Just didn’t want you to step on me, that’s all.”

“I wouldn’t… I…” Alistair stammers, then swallows.  “I’m Alistair.  Is there..?”

“Oh,  _ Alistair _ ,” the woman tells him, “Yeah, your party’s already here.  Said you might not remember his name, so it’s Zevran, okay?”  She grins at him again, “Mine’s Sigrun, since we’re doing introductions.”

Alistair can only nod at this point - he follows her into the depths of the bistro, past long tables with various parties sitting at them commonly, the tables covered in butcher paper which several children (and some adults) appear to be drawing on.  “Right,” Sigrun tells him, “Sorry, just down… oh, there he is!”

 

Zevran is standing at the end of one of the long tables, waving vigorously.  Almost in spite of the nervous churning of his guts, Alistair laughs, then looks down at Sigrun.  “Thank you,” he says sincerely, and she shrugs, still smiling.  “That’s m’job,” she says, “I’ll be back in a little while to take your order, okay?”

Alistair nods, no longer looking at her.  His eyes are arrested by Zevran - his delighted smile, the snug fit of his white t-shirt, the elegance of the tattoos which cover his arms.  Alistair hadn’t really noticed them before, but of course, he thinks as he approaches, it makes sense if the man is a tattoo artist.  “Hello,” he says shyly, and holds out his hand for Zevran to shake.

 

Zevran puts out his hand, laughing - then uses his firm grip to pull Alistair into his embrace.  “Alistair,” he crows, his tone of voice one of excited delight, “I am so glad you came.”  He kisses Alistair’s burning cheek, then quickly moves to the other, kissing that one as well before releasing Alistair, who feels all of a sudden as if the earth opening up and swallowing him wouldn’t be so bad.  Zevran stares at him a moment, shakes his head sadly, and smiles.  “Fereldan,” he sighs, “So many beautiful things, so few you are allowed to express your enjoyment of.  Please,” he continues, his tone soft now, polite and friendly as he gestures to a seat, “Sit.  Would you like some wine?”

 

“Ugh,” Alistair says, making a face.  Zevran chuckles, his hand halfway to the bottle.  

“I would guess that that is a  _ no _ then,” he says, and gestures above his head, a questioning look on his face.  He then smiles at Alistair, and says, “It is no matter.  We will simply order something which is more to your taste.  Or at least does not cause that rather unfortunate look to appear again.”  He smiles again, looking at something over Alistair’s shoulder as he rests his chin upon one upturned palm, “Sigrun is a dear.  I do so enjoy her gallows humour, her bountiful bosom, her earthy dwarven ways.  The fact that she gives me a discount does not hurt her cause either.”

 

“Oh,” Alistair says, the phrase  _ bountiful bosom _ clanging in his head, “So… uh?  Really?  You two?  It’s just that I… I thought that this might be...”   _ You idiot!  _ he screams at himself,  _ You worked yourself up that this was a date, and it’s… it’s not even… oh Maker! _

Zevran raises an eyebrow, smirking, and Alistair’s heart falls still further, “My, my, Alistair!  We are forward this evening.”  He cocks his head, then shakes it, looking down at the tabletop for an instant, then back up at Alistair to reply, “No, no, goodness, no.  There is nothing between myself and Sigrun, apart from a good deal of delightful flirting.  We are merely friends, and both very happy to keep it that way.”  His smirk grows for a moment, and he asks, “And what, pray tell, did you think that this might be?  I was under the impression that it was a date.  That’s certainly what I asked you here for.”

 

“Oh, good,” Alistair says quickly, then blushes fiercely again.  “Damnit,” he mutters, rubbing at his face, “I’m no good at this.”

“On the contrary, Alistair, I think you make a very fine date,” Zevran laughs, putting his hand quickly across the table, running the fingers smoothly over the edge of Alistair’s outstretched hand, across his knuckles then away again.  Alistair holds his breath, eyes wide, then mutters, “Did you… did you want to..?”

Zevran shakes his head, and his smile is kind.  “Relax, if you can, Alistair.  We are in no hurry, are we? I hope not, because I want to know all about you.”

 

“Oh.  Uh… well, there’s not much to say, really.  I was born in Redcliffe, or at least raised there.  I… don’t really remember my mother.  But, I mean, I didn’t have an unhappy childhood or anything.  Well, not… not that unhappy.  I mean…”  _ Sweet Maker, _ he groans internally,  _ get off this topic! _  “I went to Temple Collegiate for a while, uh… and… got kicked out,” he laughs a little, thinking of his rather more rebellious past, “And… joined the Wardens.  That’s pretty much it.”

“ _ Pretty much it _ , he says,” Zevran laughs, leaning in, both elbows on the table now, chin resting in his hands, “My, my.  A not-very-tragic past, a rebellion against authority - I’m sure that that is what it was that caused you to be kicked out of school, you see I know the type - and joining the Wardens!  The respected and feared paramilitary force!  Oh,” he looks quizzically at Alistair, “Unless… you are a traffic warden?  No less respected, but perhaps, slightly less feared?”

 

Alistair laughs, beginning to relax slightly, “No, not a traffic warden.  An actual Warden.  The training was good, and it’s interesting work usually.  That’s how I met Surana.”  He clears his throat and begins, “And what about..?”

“Okay fellas,” Sigrun says, appearing at Alistair’s elbow with an electronic device which she glowers at and taps impatiently with a stylus, “What’ll you have?”

“Oh, I…”  Alistair begins, momentarily flustered, and then stops when Zevran looks at him and smiles.

“Sigrun, if we might have my usual - though without so much spice?” he looks at Alistair, who bites his lip and nods, “And since Alistair scorned my wine in a most wounding fashion, he’d like…”

“Just a house beer,” Alistair tells her, and Sigrun nods, still scowling at the electronic device in her hand.  She taps it again, then once more, the click on its surface audible even over the noise of the bistro.  Finally, she nods, looking up at them both with a radiant smile.  “Thanks,” she trills, and winks at Alistair, “Watch out for this one.”

 

She saunters away and Zevran puts a hand to his chest, shaking his head.  “The cruelties I suffer at her hand,” he murmurs sadly, then grins at Alistair, “I believe you were going to ask something before we were so rudely interrupted?”

“I have so many questions,” Alistair says - too fast, he knows, he sounds overeager, but he  _ is _ curious.  “I… uh…”

“One at a time is always the best approach, I find.  For questions, at least,” Zevran smiles, leaning forward as if in anticipation.  

Alistair smiles back, curiosity and concern fighting in his chest, making his breath short.  “I… alright.  I guess… when we were waiting for the march to start, and you asked me if I was an old hand?”  Zevran nods, and Alistair continues, “How many protests have  _ you _ been on?  And… and I mean, unless it’s a rude question, but… are you a mage?  Not that it matters, but…” He leaves the end of the statement trailing, unsure if he would be digging himself a deeper ditch if he continued.  “And if you’re not, then… why do you go?”

 

Zevran smiles.  It’s a different smile to the ones which Alistair has seen before - it’s strange, tense, more than a little bit sad.  Instead of answering immediately, he pushes the sleeve of his t-shirt up over the crest of his shoulder, showing Alistair a half-sleeve design of two crows.  One arches over the other, its breast pierced with a single red-fletched arrow, cruel claws extended; the other, beak open, blood dripping from its outstretched wings, claws extended desperately in defense of itself.  After a moment, Zevran pulls his sleeve back down.  “I am not a mage,” he begins quietly, “But I know what it is like to lose people I care about because their worths were bound up in political machinations which we could not control.”  He smiles ruefully again, looking at Alistair for a moment longer before shrugging.  “Perhaps I will tell you the full story sometime.  But to answer your questions, I have truly lost count of how many demonstrations I have been on, and I go because my friend Isabela would mock me severely if I did not."  He laughs, then studies Alistair briefly.  "If you prefer a slightly less egotistical, and probably more accurate reason, I go because, as you yourself said, it is the right thing to do.  Not all protests are to do with mage rights - we city elves have had our fair share of…” he bites his lip, seeming to consider, then waves his hand in affected gesture, “Legal squabbles, shall we say.  But it is my opinion that we must make space at the table for all those who wish to participate, don’t you think?”  He grins, “Ah, and here is Sigrun!”

 

The dwarf grins, places their orders on the table, then almost instantly turns, hurrying away to other tables.  Zevran’s  _ usual _ turns out to be a large platter, piled high with various interesting looking morsels - Alistair stares at it, his mouth beginning to water, then points to one of the less familiar looking items and asks, “What’s that?”

“Ah!  And here I was thinking that you would almost certainly go for the cheese first,” Zevran smiles, taking a sip of his wine.  “ _ That _ , my friend is delicious.  That’s all you need to know.  Oh, are you allergic to anything?”

“Cats?” Alistair says, and Zevran laughs.

“There is certainly no cat in it, or there should not be,” he chuckles, then gestures toward the morsel, “Go on.  Try it.”

 

Alistair looks at the… whatever it is... dubiously.  He can feel Zevran’s gaze upon him, licks his lips and picks up the food with his fork.  It looks like it’s… something… wrapped in some kind of leaf, a leaf which looks glossy and dark.  He sniffs it cautiously.  It doesn’t really smell like anything he recognises - just savory.  Reasoning to himself that he can get through one mouthful, he takes a deep breath and stuffs the entire thing into his mouth.

 

It’s good.  Rice, maybe, on the inside, herbaceous and the crispness of the leaf it’s wrapped in provides a nice contrast to the softness in the middle.  Lemon and herbs, some flavour he doesn’t recognise, but overall, delicious. “Mmf,” he says with his mouth full, and nods.  “Goob.”

Zevran chuckles, picking up his own fork.  “Fereldan,” he says airily, “It is lucky for your tourist industry that her scenery is so…” He glances up at Alistair briefly, smirking, then murmurs, “ _ scenic.”   _ He licks his lips, narrowing his eyes a little, then winks and shrugs.  “Certainly nobody would stay for your food.”

Alistair splutters slightly, then considers the variety of morsels on the platter in front of him and shrugs.  Zevran laughs, and it sounds so delighted that Alistair cannot help smiling in return.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which shots are fired and lines drawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Complicated relationships, Arguments, Sexual content. I would tag for mastubation, but... well, you'll see.  
> Ship tags: Cullen x Samson [implied]

Alistair drops his keys, and bends to pick them up, still grinning.   _What a night_ , he thinks, his head swimming slightly on two beers and so much euphoria he can barely think straight.  The evening had been lovely; he and Zevran had talked for what had seemed like an age.  About their interests, about their jobs, what kind of music they liked (Zevran had almost choked on his wine when Alistair had confessed his love of Loretta Lynn, and had to be thumped on the back).  Zevran had almost cajoled him into considering a tattoo - remembering their conversation around it made Alistair smile fondly again.  He turns the key in the lock and pushes the door to the flat open, stepping into the light.

 

The sound of gunfire greets him.  “Shit, shit, _shit_ ,” Cullen yells, half-crouched over his controller, eyes focussed on the screen, “Get that bastard, Lee, the one with the R-C8!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Samson drawls from the couch next to Cullen, his feet up on the coffee table, “I’m comin’.”

“ _Now,_ Maker’s Breath, we’re gonna lose this…”

“Hey, Al,” Samson says, still manipulating his controller, “How was it?”

“Good,” Alistair tells him, leaning over the back of the sofa to peer at the simulated battle taking place on the screen, “ _Infinite War_ again? Aren’t you sick of that by now?”

 

“S’not about what I want,” Samson tells him, frowning as his avatar comes under heavy fire and he runs the figure up the wall as he casts a grenade behind the shelters which other players are using, then grins as the grenade explodes, sending shrapnel everywhere.  “Sometimes I let his majesty decide what we’re doin’.  Anyway, tell us about this mystery man of yours.”  He grunts in annoyance as his avatar is ambushed, then sniffs as his portion of the screen goes red, and puts the controller down.  

“Lee, c’mon,” Cullen whines, and Samson laughs.  

“Nah,” he says, “I’m bored of shootin’ fools.  I wanna hear Al’s gossip.”

 

“Nothing much to tell,” Alistair says gruffly, then grins a little, remembering Zevran’s laugh.  Samson chuckles.

“I know that look!” he smirks, “You _like_ him.”

“Yeah,” Alistair says softly, and nods, before pushing up off the sofa and swaggering slightly as he walks into the kitchen.  “I suppose I do.”

 

He checks the kettle, finds it cold, and fills it again.  Briefly, he considers asking Samson and Cullen if they’d like a cup of tea, then decides against it.  Really, he wants a moment by himself to savour some of the memories he has of the evening.  For some time, he stands looking into the fridge where he’d gone to get the milk - it’s not until he hears a harrumph behind him that he realises that all he’s really doing is staring at the golden lamplight of the fridge, with a stupid, sappy smile on his face.  Quickly, he turns, sees Cullen standing there, his arms folded and his hip resting on the side of the kitchen bench.  “Good, then?” he asks.

 

“Yeah,” Alistair tells him, “He was lovely.  It was… really nice.  We’re going to meet up again at this public meeting thing.”

Cullen frowns in confusion and the kettle clicks off.  “What public meeting thing?”

“The one in City Hall,” Samson calls from the lounge as the sound of gunfire resumes, “The mage rights one, is it, Al?  Oi, Culls, get your arse back here, I can’t do all this mindless killin’ by myself.”

Cullen scowls over his shoulder at Samson, but doesn’t move.  “Mage rights?” he asks Alistair, cocking his head slightly, “I… didn’t think you were…”  He clears his throat, blinks, and asks, “Is he a mage or something?”

 

Alistair shakes his head as he pours milk into his mug.  The words swirl around them - not so much the words, but the tone of them.   _Let it go_ , Alistair thinks, then shakes his head again.  No.   _Some freedom’s don’t come very freely,_ Zevran had said - _When people like you start showing up, they’ll have to start listening to us,_  Surana had told him.  “No.  He’s not a mage,” Alistair says carefully, still staring into the contents of his mug, “But even if he was that wouldn’t matter to me.  And I can’t imagine it would be a problem for you either.  Not with the way you look at Surana when she’s over.”

 

“That’s not… it’s… that’s beside the point,” Cullen blusters, then his frown deepens for a moment before he takes a breath and tries, rather obviously, to calm himself.  “I don’t have a problem with mages.  As long as they keep to themselves.  And… and Surana’s different.”  He swallows, raises his chin and sniffs.  “It’s all this _mage rights_ nonsense that I have a problem with.  They’re all crazies in that movement, Al.  Like… have you seen those local guys, that Hawke and whatever the other guy's name is… Andrew? Andre?”  He shakes his head again, “I heard that they’re like, into some really dodgy shit.  And then there’s that law firm, Orsino, Pavus and Associates?  They’re…”

“Culls!” Samson bellows from the living room, “Get in here, or so help me…”

“Shut it,” Cullen tells him loudly over his shoulder, turning swiftly so that, for a moment, Alistair sees his face only in profile.  In that moment, he notes the deep flush on Cullen’s throat, the hunch of his shoulders, the way that his nostrils flare.  And then Cullen turns back to him, his mouth open belligerently, and Alistair tells him, “Stop.  Just… just stop.”

 

They stare at each other for what feels like a long time, only the sound of electronic gunfire in the air.  Then Alistair takes a deep breath and says, very quietly, “I’m going to assume that you said all of that because you’re worried about me.  And… I appreciate that, I do.  It’s… it’s a big thing for you, I know that.”  He takes another breath, slower this time, feeling the tide of his anger threatening to overwhelm him, trying not to let his irritation at Cullen’s hypocrisy show.  “Surana’s my friend.  And… and it was good today, good to be around people who thought I could do something, good to stand up for something.  I’ve never done that before - I’ve barely even stood up for myself.”  He swallows, clenching his jaw and looks at Cullen, “I don’t know much about the cause yet.  But I know it feels _right_ , Cullen.  It’s not right to lock people away because of something they can’t help.”

“You say that,” Cullen tells him bitterly, “But you don’t know _anything_ about it.  A free mage is a mage who will use their magic on other people.  They’re all _weapons_ , Alistair, or they have the potential to be, and if this Zevran is telling you anything different, then he’s lying, and I…”

 

Something in Alistair snaps at those words, and suddenly he feels his fists curl.  “Get out of my way,” he snarls, stepping into Cullen’s personal space, their chests bumping lightly together.  For a moment, Alistair wonders if Cullen will do it, and then he steps aside, letting Alistair past.  Samson raises his eyebrows at Alistair as he walks through the lounge, but neither of them say anything - then Alistair is into the narrow, dim corridor.  He takes three paces, throws open the door to his room so hard that it rebounds slightly from the wall, then kicks it closed with a loud thump.  

 

For a long time, he paces, too keyed up to do anything much except try to physically outpace his thoughts.  What a stupid end to a marvellous day.  He sighs, his irritation at Cullen’s stance flaring in him again, and shakes his head.  He doesn’t want to face Cullen again - not until they’ve both cooled off.  Throwing himself on the bed, he stares at the ceiling, listening to the voices coming from the lounge.   _He can talk_ , Alistair thinks, frowning, _the way he looks at Surana like he’s a starving puppy!_  There is a short vibration in his back pocket, and Alistair rolls to the side slightly to withdraw his phone from his back pocket.   _ty - i hope you enjoyed tonight as much as i did_ , reads the message, and Alistair smiles at the line of emoji’s which follow - love hearts in various colours and little faces with heart eyes, several lightning bolts and glasses of wine and pitchers of beer.   _Yes,_ Alistair types back slowly, then pauses, wondering if it sounds too formal.  He deletes it, tries again, _Oh yeah!_ No, too enthusiastic.  He sighs, shakes his head at himself and taps quickly, _It was amazing, like you.  Thank you, Zev._  Alistair hesitates, terrified, then hits send.  “Too late now, _”_ he murmurs, then throws the phone onto the other side of the bed, closing his eyes.  Rubbing his hands over his face, he manages to ignore the buzz of the reply for all of about half a second, before rolling across the bed to snatch it up again.   _flatterer,_ Zevran has responded, _i c i will b putty in ur hands.  im all of a quiver already - cant wait 2 c u again._

 

Alistair rolls onto his back again, snorting laughter, even as he feels the tingling bolt of desire shoot through him.  What should he reply with?  Desperately, he attempts to think of something flirty to say back, but as usual, his brain deserts him, and he gives it up.   _Me too_ .   _Goodnight,_ he settles for, then wonders if he should tell Zevran about the fight with Cullen.   _That’s one way to ruin the mood_ , he thinks glumly, and sighs.  Instead, he settles for searching through the emoji’s, trying to find the perfect visual expression of his thoughts… but in the end, settles for a single red heart.  

 

He sighs, setting the phone aside.   _Putty in your hands_ , Zevran had said, and the slew of visions which this phrase gives rise to makes him swallow.  Alistair shifts, a flush of pleasure creeping down his body to coil, rough and deep, in the pit of his stomach.  He moves his hips, wonders briefly if it’s weird to wank over someone he only just met.   _Putty in your hands_ , that phrase rises again, and Alistair’s eyes fall closed, deciding that he doesn’t care if it is weird, because these images… they are powerful.  He imagines the skin of Zevran’s thigh under his palm, the soft kisses that he’d trail over Zevran’s jaw.  What would he taste like?  Alistair smiles wistfully, tucks his thumb into the top of his jeans to loosen the fastenings.  He slides the zipper down slowly, fondles his own cock firmly, imagining that it is Zevran’s hand on him.  He imagines burying his nose in all that silky-looking blond hair, the way that he’d loosen the plaits that Zevran wears, run his fingers through them, how he’d hold Zevran’s hair away from his face and kiss him gently, the two dark tattooed lines under his lips, oh, the corners of Zevran’s laughing eyes, everywhere he could reach.  Maker, that feels good.  Alistair’s breath comes in rough pants as he tugs more urgently at himself.  He imagines the flex and thrust of muscles under the skin, strong hands clawing into his shoulders and the way that Zevran’s cock would fill his mouth as he…

 

The bathroom door slams, and Samson’s voice comes down the corridor, “I’ll take that as a no then, shall I?  Bastard.”

The sneer in his voice is evident, and Alistair opens his eyes to look at the ceiling, taking a deep breath.  The shower starts in the bathroom, and a moment later the front door slams as well.  Alistair sighs all the air out of his lungs, withdrawing his hand from his jeans.   _Oh well_ , he thinks, _maybe later_.  He stifles a yawn, knowing that if he does not get changed into his pyjamas now, he will fall asleep in his clothes - but soon enough, the weight and tension and excitement of the day get the better of him, and Alistair falls into a fitful sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are learnt and seats are saved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new tags  
> Ship tags: past Isabela x Zevran

He wakes, still feeling tired.  The sun filters through the elderly curtains, filling the room with a diffuse golden light.  Alistair groans as the tumultuous events of yesterday wash over him; the march, his date ( _ date! _ his mind squeals at him, and he grins) with Zevran, and then the awful fight with Cullen.  He sighs, then glances at the clock - ten fifteen.  Cullen will be gone by now, thank the Maker - he always goes to the first service on Sunday.  And it’s not that Alistair wants to avoid him, not really… or… maybe just a little bit.  He huffs, the annoyance at last night flaring once more.  Reluctantly, he replays the conversation with Cullen in his head.  And he finds that there is one phrase which twists in his guts more than any of the others -  _ you don’t know anything about it. _

 

_ You know why that annoys you _ , he tells himself, sitting up and rubbing his face, mentally groaning again at the fact that he’s fallen asleep in last night’s clothes and now feels hopelessly grimy,  _ It’s because you really  _ don’t _ know anything.  For all you know, Zevran could be lying about it.  Not that he is.  I don’t think he would lie.  Would he _ ?  He pushes the question away, focussing on the root cause as he sifts through the clothes on his floor for something clean-ish to wear.   _ So how do I find out more about it? _ he wonders, then smiles.  There is a way that he can kill two birds with one stone - he will visit the library, thereby finding out more about what’s caused this rift between mages and mundane and manage to avoid his housemate at the same time.   _ Not a very mature approach _ , he thinks as he trundles into the bathroom, and shrugs, finding that he doesn’t much care.

 

When he arrives, the library is virtually deserted.  The tall, slender, red-haired man on the front desk gives him a cautious smile as he enters, then carefully places a sticker on the cover of the book on the desk.  “Hello.  Are you looking for the book sale?” he asks politely, and Alistair shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “I’m fine.   Thank you.”

“No trouble,” the man tells him, and Alistair pauses, peering at him.  He seems vaguely familiar now that Alistair is looking at him properly.  The man looks up again, a worried look crossing his face, and asks, “Are you alright?”

 

“Uh…” Alistair says, then shakes his head.  “Look, this might sound stupid, but… do I know you from somewhere?”

“I don’t think so,” the man replies, “I don’t recognise you, if that helps.  Not to be rude or anything, but I just don’t think we’ve met before.  Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Alistair smiles, then pauses again.  The man looks at him, seemingly growing more confused by the moment, then Alistair asks, “Uh, I’m sorry.  It’s been awhile since I’ve been in here.  I’m sure I could look it up on the computer, but… do you have any books about mages?”

 

Instantly, the man narrows his eyes slightly, then the look is gone.  “Yes,” he says firmly, “What sort of thing were you wanting to look at?”

“I don’t really know,” Alistair sighs.  “I just… ugh, this is stupid.  But… I went to a protest yesterday.  My first one, actually.  And… and well, long story short, I had a bit of a fight with my housemate about the mage rights thing, and he said that I was just in it for…”  _ a pretty face _ is the phrase Alistair bites his tongue on, and he almost laughs at his lack of guile _ ,  _ “Well.  Not good reasons.  But I am.  I think.  But… I still think I need to know more about it.  I’m not a mage,” he finishes, rather lamely, then has to bite his tongue again on the phrase,  _ not that there’s anything wrong with that _ .  He can feel the embarrassment rolling in waves within him, and he sighs and shakes his head.  “I’m sorry,” he repeats, finally looking back at the man at the desk.

 

The man is smiling slightly, pecking away at the keyboard of the computer in front of him.  “That’s alright.  Never apologise to a librarian for wanting to find out more about something.”  He purses his lips thoughtfully, still looking at the computer screen.  “It sounds as if you might want something historical.  There’s a deep-seated cause at the root of most of today’s societal… uh, challenges, and if you want to understand what’s provoked the present tensions, history can be a good place to start.”  He glances up at Alistair quickly, then scrawls a series of numbers on a little piece of paper.  “If you want, I can come out to the stacks with you and help you find what you’re looking for?  It might be easier to do it that way.”

 

“Oh, you don’t have to go to any trouble,” Alistair begins, but the man is already moving away from the desk, popping his head into an open doorway.  “Hey,” Alistair hears him say, “I’ve got an inquiry, can you cover for me?”

“Blondie, stop shittin’ me,” a voice laughs, “It’s half eleven on a sunny Sunday.   _ Nobody _ comes to the library  _ that  _ early.  Void,  _ I _ wouldn’t even be here if I wasn’t bein’ paid to write.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not paid to write,” the man says snarkily, “Are you going to cover the desk, Varric, or do I have to tell Cassandra?”

“You wouldn’t,” the voice says, and the man moves back from the doorway as a dwarf stumps through it, looking harried.  “Fine, fine, you  _ do  _ have a live one,” he grouses, grinning in a hang-dog fashion at Alistair, “G’won then.  You owe me, though.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” the red-haired man tells the dwarf, and rolls his eyes at Alistair, “Follow me, please.”

Alistair nods, feeling a little overwhelmed by this exchange.  Still, he follows the man, who leads him to a staircase then pauses, turning slightly to ask, “Are you alright with stairs?”

“Yes?” Alistair tells him, unable to help the way the answer turns into a question, the inflexion rising at the end.  The man smiles ruefully as he starts to climb.

“Sorry,” he says, “I try to always ask people.  It’s kind of daft, I guess, but imagine someone just assuming you were okay with stairs or whatever when you couldn’t do them?  That’d be annoying to explain all the time.  So I try to preempt it.”

“Oh,” Alistair says, and smiles at the man’s back, “That’s… really nice.  Actually.”

But the man only chuckles.  “It’s not about  _ nice _ \- just about not assuming.  But anyway.  Mage rights is kind of a complicated subject, and it’s one of those ones that… well, a lot of the sources need critiquing, because they’re not exactly unbiased.”

 

They’ve reached the top of the stairs.  The librarian turns slightly, looking first toward the left-hand stacks and then toward the right.  As he turns, he must catch a glimpse of the confused expression on Alistair’s face - he smiles, arching an eyebrow quizzically, and asks, “You look like you’ve got a question.”

“Bias?” Alistair mutters, then shakes his head, “But it’s history.  It’s stuff that happened.  Didn’t it?  How could people lie about that?”

The librarian sighs sadly, and gestures toward the stacks on the right-hand side, indicating that Alistair should follow him.  “They don’t  _ lie _ \- not overtly, at least.  But history can be twisted, manipulated or ignored to serve almost any ends.  Have you ever heard the phrase  _ history is written by the victors _ ?  It’s true - at least in part.  History is frequently written by the conquerors on behalf of the conquered - that’s why so much elven history is in dispute at the moment.  I mean, there are historians who even dispute the Exalted March against Arlathan ever happened, if you can believe it.  But anyway, the history of the Chantry’s relationship with mages is pretty fraught.  If you take one of the most well-known historians, Genetivi, I mean, he was  _ employed _ by the Chantry for a while.  So… you know, something like that would impact on his objectivity.”  

 

“Oh,” Alistair says as the librarian leads him into a stack.  The books smell old and disused down here, and the overhead fluorescent doesn’t flicker to life until the librarian waves frantically at it.  The man studies the piece of paper in his hand, squints at the numbers on the spines of the books and smiles - but it is a fraught smile, something bitter and distressed about it.  “Here,” he says, taking a book from the shelf, “Try that on for size.  And let me know if you’ve got anything else you want to talk about.  Mage rights is… kind of an interest of mine.”  He smiles at Alistair, points at his name tag, “Just ask for Anders.  I’m here until three.”

 

“Anders?” Alistair asks, and a light seems to flare inside his skull.  “That’s where I know you from!  Yesterday!  That was my first protest, you were up on stage with that, uh, that… oh, what was his name?”

Anders laughs a little and sighs.  “That’s Taliesin Hawke.  My loudmouth husband.  I mostly go to those things to save him from himself.”  He shakes his head.  “Librarians sometimes cling to this idea that we can be neutral.  But there’s no way that what we do is neutral - nothing is, apart from sitting still and staying silent.  And Maker knows I did that for long enough.”  He shakes his head again, frowning slightly, then looks at Alistair to smile.  “So.  Anyway.  Let me know if there’s anything else I can help with.  I’m just downstairs.”

 

-|||-

 

The hours pass quickly.  Alistair’s eyes are hurting, and his ass feels numb from the hard seat at the little desk he finds in the corner.  He turns another page, then looks up when someone clears their throat.

“Still here?” Anders grins at him - he’s got his coat on, Alistair notes with surprise.  He nods, squeezes his eyes closed and rubs them, sitting back in the seat.  Anders laughs a little and Alistair sighs, then sits bolt upright, staring at Anders in horror. 

 

“What time is it?” he asks, then adds, “Please?  I kind of lost track, and…”

“Five past three,” Anders tells him, frowning, then smiles a little.  “I just came to ask if you were going to this meeting thing.  The mage rights one?  I thought since you were interested…”  He shrugs, “Maybe… if you’re…”

“Yes,” Alistair tells him, immediately getting up and grabbing his coat, “I’m meeting someone there.  Oh, shit, I hope I’m not too late…”

“You won’t be.  It doesn’t start until half past. Plenty of time,” Anders smiles, shifting as Alistair comes out from behind the seat.  Alistair looks back at the pile of books on the desk, hesitating, then glances at Anders, who raises an eyebrow.  “We actually prefer that people don’t try to put them back,” he laughs, as if he has read Alistair’s guilty expression at leaving such a mess in his wake.  Alistair nods, and together they walk down the stairs, out of the library and into the sunlight.

 

-|||-

  
  


There are people still milling around outside City Hall when they arrive.  Anders grins shyly, greeting people, obviously looking for his husband.  A woman approaches him, throwing her arms around him theatrically; she wears a bright blue bandanna with brilliant gold hoop earrings, her arms covered in gorgeous tattoos which seem to have a nautical theme.  At least, that’s what Alistair assumes - many of them seem to feature ships and mermaids with bare breasts.  “And who’s this?” she asks, keeping her arm around Anders as she steps back, looking Alistair up and down in appraisal.  He swallows deeply, lunging toward her with his hand outstretched before Anders can speak.

 

“Uh, I’m Alistair?  I met Anders at the library, and he bought me alo…”

“Alistair?   _ You’re  _ Alistair?  Oh my,” the woman smirks, still gripping his hand.  Her grip is just on the uncomfortable side of firm, and as soon as he releases her hand, she raises it to her mouth, puts her fingers against her lips as she smirks.  He blushes, rubs his neck, and she laughs.  “I’m Isabela.  I’m sure Zev’s mentioned me.  We work together.  And we used to play together too,” she grins, and Anders shakes his head.  “Where’s Tal and Fen?” he asks her quietly, and Isabela points imperiously toward the back of the hall without dropping her gaze from Alistair, who shifts uncomfortably.  “Izzy,” Anders murmurs, and Isabela huffs.

 

“Fine,” she says blithely, “Come on then.  You’re no fun, Anders, did I ever tell you that?”

“All the time,” he tells her, and she laughs.  Alistair follows in their wake, until Isabela stops, pointing down an aisle.  “This is your stop, big boy,” she grins at him, and Alistair follows the line of her arm to see Zevran waving at him.  He grins in relief, waves shyly back as he pushes past Anders to shuffle his way down to where Zevran is standing.  “Hi,” he says, hardly knowing what to do with himself - not that that seems to matter, because there, in front of the Maker and everyone else, Zevran grins, takes his hand and raises it to his lips.  “Hello,” he grins, breath soft over Alistair’s knuckles, “I saved you a seat.”  He turns Alistair’s hand over, presses a swift kiss to the palm, and Alistair gulps.  “Thank you,” he manages to choke out, and practically falls into the seat Zevran has gestured at as a truncated scream of feedback howls through the hall.  Even over the sound of it, Alistair can hear Zevran’s laughter, and he smiles.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which assumptions are leapt to and an offer is made.

Alistair can’t remember a word of it.  Oh, he knows that a debate occurred, a debate during which Hawke had shouted down the mayor, who had stood with a stony expression as Hawke had gone red in the face with the force of whatever he was saying.  He knows that the noise from parts of the smallish, scattered crowd was vehement, the meeting teetering on the brink of chaos at several points.  He knows that he should have paid more attention to what was being said - but the fact of it is, that all he felt was Zevran’s warmth in the seat beside him, the fuzzy sensation in his head, the swiftness of his heartbeat, not to mention the tingling in his cock when Zevran reached over and squeezed him gently just above the knee.   

 

“Ugh,” Zevran says after the adjudicator had tiredly called the meeting to a close, “That was a waste of time.  I don’t know why they even bother.”

“Isn’t it… good though?” Alistair hazards cautiously, “To get it all out, I mean?  And I mean, it was… interesting, I guess, to get the other side of it.”

Zevran raises an eyebrow a little, narrowing his eyes.  “I suppose,” he says slowly, “Though I am of the opinion that if your view is the dominant one, then perhaps one needs to close one’s mouth and listen for a change.”  He shrugs and smirks, “Though I am only a tattoo artist.  What do I know?”

“More than me,” Alistair sighs, and rubs his forehead.  Zevran’s smirk changes slightly, becomes a thoughtful smile as the hall begins to empty out around them.  “Alistair,” he asks, “Are you alright?”

 

“Of course,” Alistair tells him - but when Zevran tucks a hand through the crook of his elbow, holding his arm gently, looking up into his face with a quizzical expression, he sighs again.  “No,” he says, “I feel… confused.  More than usual.  It just feels… so big.  All of this.  And I don’t know… I mean… what use am I really being?”  He shrugs, very conscious of Zevran’s warm hand on his skin.  Suddenly, his throat feels very dry, and he harrumphs to clear it.  Zevran grins.

 

“Alistair!  I know exactly what you need!” he says, gently guiding Alistair to the nearest exit now that the crowd had begun to thin, “Come with me and meet some friends.  We will drink and carouse, dance and laugh.  From the look of you when you came in, you have already met Isabela - and since Anders was with you, perhaps you met him too?”  When Alistair nods, Zevran smiles at him, “Excellent!  Is the charming other-Warden here?  Perhaps she would like to join us?”

“Surana?  She had to work,” Alistair tells him, and Zevran shrugs.

“Ah well; such things cannot be helped,” he sighs; though Alistair gets a distinct impression that he’s not that bothered, and finds himself grinning smugly.  “Come.  We will meet my friends, and see what highly non-political fun we can get ourselves into.” He winks, pulling Alistair along, into the dusk as the city buzzes and roars and shifts around them.

 

-|||-

 

“Zevran, you cheeky bastard,” Hawke yells delightedly, virtually running across the room to engulf the elf in a huge bear hug, “Oi!  You lot! Look who the cat dragged in!”

Alistair stands awkwardly to one side, smiling politely as other people call greetings to Zevran.  He doesn’t know if he’s going to be welcome in this crowd - and once again, it seems as if everyone knows each other.  Zevran grins up at Hawke, who ruffles his hair and tweaks his ear affectionately, “Look at you,” he croons, “If I didn’t have my hands full with my darling boys already, I’d just…”

 

“Taliesin,” Zevran laughs, “Quite aside from the fact that I really do think that adding  _ my _ ego to the current volatile mixture of your relationship is a recipe for certain death, may I introduce Alistair?  We met at the march last weekend, and it would seem he is quite the thief - having stolen my heart quite away.”

“You have a heart?  Or do you mean the  _ heart  _ that you keep in your pants?” Hawke laughs, turning his gaze to Alistair, who grins nervously.  They shake hands, and Hawke studies him for a long, awkward moment before he snickers and narrows his eyes.  “Oh buddy, you are going to get eaten alive,” he murmurs, “Watch out for Zev.  He’s trouble with a capital T.”

“It takes trouble to know trouble, clearly,” Zevran says - and though the tone of his voice is light, Alistair thinks that he detects a note of steel beneath it.    But Hawke only laughs, and beckons them over to a table, making an ostentatious gesture to the bartender as he goes.

 

-|||-

 

“No,” the white haired elf, Fenris, says crossly, leaning with one elbow on the table and jabbing his finger at a human who merely sits gazing at him rather smugly and twirling his moustache.  “You can spout all the legal theory in the world, it does not change the fact that…”

“Oh, my dear, I can spout  _ all night _ ,” the human tells him archly, “And you can take  _ that _ any way you like.  But when you look into the legality of the situation, it is really quite untenable…”

“Of course it’s untenable!” Fenris hisses, “It is slavery!”

The human narrows his eyes, “Yes.  It is.  It’s also deeply entrenched into the societal matrix.  So while I do not dispute at all the morality and the natural justice of your claims, I do draw issue with the fact that you seem to be suggesting outright anarchy with which to replace it.  How tolerable a system do you..?”

 

“Good Maker,” Hawke groans, pulling up a chair to sit next to Alistair, “Not this again.  Dorian, can you and my lovely Fenris just agree that Tevene politics is a world-class, no-holds-barred, super-fucked-up mess, and that you two aren’t solving anything by dicking around with details?  I’m sure that if you ever managed to agree on something you could change the fucking world. Who could stand in your way if you worked together?”

Fenris snorts and lifts his glass, draining it.  He puts it down again and rolls his eyes, “As if Dorian would want to sully his hands with actual work.”

“I believe I take offence at that,” Dorian smirks, “And after I so nicely waived my fee when you caught the attention of those investigators after you put all that information about the Magisterium on Wikilea…”

“Dorian,” another human who’s name Alistair doesn’t remember says warningly, and Dorian laughs.

 

“Alright, alright,” he says, putting both hands into the air, palms out.  “Felix has your back, and of course, as your legal counsel, so do I.”  He shakes his head and rubs his chest, grinning at Fenris as the elf pours himself more wine, then offers the bottle to Dorian.  The conversation swirls around Alistair; he’s being included, everyone he’s met here seems perfectly nice, but he still feels on the periphery.  Slowly, he scans the little crowd, clustered together and talking noisily.  There’s Anders, talking to a young man who looks suspiciously like Hawke.  The young man is standing next to an elven woman, who is looking at Anders with an expression which looks a little like sympathy.  As Alistair watches, the woman turns slightly.  There, on the back of her shirt, is a picture of an adorable calf, with the legend underneath  _ love me, don’t eat me _ .  Alistair snorts a quiet laugh; a laugh which dies in his throat as he sees Isabela whispering into Zevran’s ear.

 

They’re standing too close together.  Why are they standing that close?  They don’t need to be standing so close to each other - her with her hand on his chest, him with his arm around her waist.  They look conspiratorial, laughing together - it looks intimate, relaxed.   _ They’re friends, _ Alistair tells himself, unable to tear his gaze away,  _ They’re friends.  That’s what Zevran said - my friend Isabela, remember?  And, and she said _ … But the memory of Isabela’s smug expression when she’d told him that she and Zevran used to… they used to… _ play together _ , Alistair remembers, his guts feeling heavy.   _ Maybe they still do,  _ he thinks, and licks his lips.  He shifts his gaze to his beer, staring into the depths of it, then feels an overwhelming urge to go.  Without considering it much, he rises; the conversation continues around him, and Alistair walks with heavy footsteps to where Zevran and Isabela stand, still engrossed in each other.

 

Zevran looks at him, smiling at Alistair.  “Ah, it is unfortunate that I was not there to introduce you to this charming woman, this pirate queen.  Truly, Isabela is one of my oldest friends, and she still surprises me with the most filthy stories!”  He frowns slightly at something he must see in Alistair’s expression and cocks his head as Alistair tries to smile.  “Yeah,” he says, then rubs his neck, “Look, I’m gonna… I’m going to get going.  I have to work tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Zevran says, looking crestfallen.  “Well then, let me…”

“No, it’s fine,” Alistair tells him, shaking his head.  He cannot help but glance at Isabela, who looks at him, clearly puzzled.  

“No,” Zevran says, taking a step forward, “No, Alistair, please, let me…”

“It’s  _ fine _ ,” Alistair tells him, more loudly than he’d intended.  Then he sighs.  “I’m sorry.  I suppose I’m just… not really feeling it.  You know?”

 

Zevran frowns slightly, and shakes his head, taking his arm from around Isabela.  She watches them, her eyes flicking between Zevran and himself, and Alistair finds he cannot quite place the expression on her face.  Is it pity?  Irritation?  Satisfaction?  Sadness?  He sniffs, looking at Zevran, who is looking up at him gently.  “Alistair,” he says softly, “Please.  Let me at least walk you to your car.”

“Took the bus,” Alistair mumbles, and Zevran smiles, raising an eyebrow.

“All the more reason,” he says, still in the soft, almost conciliatory tone of voice, “You may have to wait.  Please.  I would like very much to spend more time with you.”

 

Alistair sighs; he tries to think of an excuse, but once again, comes up with nothing.  “Alright,” he says and nods.  Zevran grins at him, turns and waves quickly at Isabela, then takes Alistair’s arm and together, they leave the bar.

 

They walk in silence down the rapidly darkening streets.  Overhead, the street lights have flickered to life - when Alistair looks up, he sees several moths battering around the nearest one.  He sighs, grateful that the evening is still warm.  Zevran walks at his side, keeping pace.  They say nothing, until finally, they reach Alistair’s bus stop.  

 

Zevran sighs.  “Alistair,” he asks quietly, “May I ask you what you are thinking?”

“Nothing,” Alistair tells him quickly, and folds his arms over his chest, looking away.  He scowls out into the traffic, then blurts, “Are you with Isabela?  Because I can’t… I won’t date someone who’s not into me.  I thought you liked me.  You know.   _ Liked _ me, liked me.  Like I like you.  But if you’re… having… you know, whatever, with someone else, then…”

“No,” Zevran tells him, and steps forward, catching Alistair’s hand up and holding it in both his own.  “Alistair.  Isabela and I… no.  Not anymore.  Certainly once.”  He narrows his eyes, bites his lip.  “I have had a great deal of sex, and I enjoy the company of many different people.  And I do not respond well to jealousy.  But…”  Zevran takes a deep breath and seems to steel himself before he says, “But if we are going to do this, then I am with  _ you _ .  There are no secret liaisons, nothing that we do not talk about together.  I _do_ like you.  Very much.  But if what I have described is not something you feel you want, then…”

“I want it,” Alistair tells him, and he is surprised by the strength in his voice, the surety, the suddenness of it all.  “Maker, yes.  I want… yes.  I don’t know what it is about you, Zevran, but I…” he nods, suddenly speechless, then laughs.  Zevran smiles up at him, then cocks his head, before stepping lightly into the circle of Alistair’s arms.

 

Alistair’s heart hammers in his chest.  He feels Zevran’s hands go to his waist; those lovely amber eyes stare up at him.  Nervously, Alistair licks his lips.  “Everyone keeps warning me about you,” he murmurs, and closes his eyes.  “But I don’t care what they say.  I know what I feel.”  His throat feels very dry, and he tries to swallow, then sighs and opens his eyes, his hands going to Zevran’s back.  “Zev,” he asks, “Will you… Can I..?”

“Yes,” Zevran tells him, his lip curling slightly into a small smile, his eyes dancing with excitement.  “Please.”

 

And with that, Alistair leans forward and presses his lips gently against Zevran’s.  He feels as if he can hardly breathe, but he must be breathing, because he can smell Zevran - warm and malty with the beer he’s drunk, soft and sweet, some kind of  _ oh Maker _ is that Zevran’s tongue?  Alistair’s skin feels on fire with both nerves and desire, and he’s sure if Zevran steps away right now he’ll… oh no, he’ll have to do something, because his cock is responding to this kiss in the most wonderful, most embarrassing of ways.  Zevran begins to move backward and on instinct, Alistair moves forward, chasing those beautiful, sweet lips with his own.  Zevran chuckles a little, kisses him again, once, quickly, then raises a hand to his cheek and moves his face away.  He does not step out of his embrace, however, just lets his body remain frankly pressed against Alistair.  “Alistair,” he murmurs, and Alistair is pleased to note how low his voice sounds, how husky, “Must you really go home?”

“Yeah,” Alistair sighs regretfully, “I really do have work tomorrow.”

“But I will miss you dreadfully,” Zevran tells him, pressing a little harder against the front of Alistair’s body.  Alistair exhales hard, shifts his hips, and Zevran growls under his breath, his eyes focussed on Alistair’s.  He feels as if they are the only two people in the whole world, and he licks his lips, biting the bottom one as he thinks.  “Look, I…” is all he manages to say before Zevran interrupts him.

“Will you let me give you a lift home?” he asks softly, and runs one hand up and down Alistair’s back; Alistair shivers in response, clinging tighter to Zevran.  Without thinking, he nods, smiles sightly as Zevran beams at him.  “Good.  Thank you.  My car is on the next block, just a little further.”  Zevran continues to look up at Alistair, and his smile changes, becomes rather cheeky, “We will have to let go of each other, in order to get there, alas.”

 

Alistair chuckles, holds Zevran tighter for a moment before releasing him.  Zevran grins at him, arching an eyebrow, then laughs.  He takes his hand, and pulls Alistair down the street, toward his car and the promise of a ride home.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are gained and things are lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so this got a ratings bump: we're now up to an E for explicit sexual content, and new tags include: explicit sexual content, oral sex, misunderstandings (and did I mention that Alistair is like, the King of Awkward Sexual Conversation? Because he is. Though I have to say I am super proud of him here.)

Zevran sighs as he parks the car under the street light, turning the lights off but leaving the engine idling.  Alistair turns his head, desperately trying to make his mouth move.  He licks his lips, tastes Zevran on them, and has to suppress a whimper.  Zevran continues to look at him for a moment longer, then murmurs, “Say something, Alistair.”  He grins lopsidedly and says, “You have not said a word since we started driving.”  He laughs, but it sounds strained, and says, “Anyone would think you had been struck completely mute at the sheer brilliance of my kisses.”

 

 _Do you want to come in?_ is the first thing Alistair wants to say.  But he can’t make the words come.   _Kiss me,_ he tries to say; it’s shorter, he should have more success with that.  His lips part, he draws breath, heart already singing with success, when out comes, “Have you ever licked a lamppost in winter?  I did once.  It was a really stupid thing to do.  Like, really stupid.  And I…”

 _Shut up!_ he screams internally, appalled at the way his mouth is continuing to move, words spilling from him about how he had to go to the emergency room, about how much blood there was, about how, no, he wasn’t six or seven when this happened but _seventeen_ , old enough to know better.  He clenches his fist, takes a deep breath and closes his mouth, swallowing hard.  Silence reigns.  

 

Alistair cannot bring himself to look at Zevran.   _I’m sorry_ , he wants to say, but does not trust himself to look up.  Slowly, Alistair undoes his seatbelt and then puts his hand out to open the door.   _You idiot_ , he tells himself resignedly, _You blew it.  It could have been great and you blew it_.  But as the car door opens with a quiet thunk, Alistair feels Zevran’s hand on his wrist, and Zevran asks, “Alistair?”

 

He turns, and Zevran is smiling at him.  “I regret that I have never had the experience,” he purrs, “But I am very glad that the event does not seem to have had a lasting effect on the use of your tongue.”  That quirk of the eyebrow, the gently curious gaze, then Zevran asks, “Was that what you really wanted to tell me?”

Silently, Alistair shakes his head, and he looks away to take another deep breath.  “No,” he murmurs, “I wanted to… to ask you if…”

He swallows, bites the inside of his cheek, internally raging at himself.   _Say it, say it, say it!  It’s right there, Please, come up, kiss me, take my clothes off, take yours off, we can… and you, you might…_  His thoughts flounder, his toes clench inside his shoes and he shifts uncomfortably before clearing his throat.  Alistair can almost feel the silence in the car, deep, singing with tension.  He takes another breath, closes his eyes as he turns to face Zevran.  “Zev,” he says without opening his eyes, “Do you want to come in?”

 

Still, and quiet, and then Alistair feels Zevran’s hand shift slightly on his wrist before the engine of the car is turned off.  Then a soft hand is laid on his cheek, and he opens his eyes.  Zevran is looking at him, smiling slightly.  “Yes.  I would like that very much.”  His smile shifts, and he cocks his head again before saying slowly, “I want to be clear about this first though.”

His hand shifts again on Alistair’ wrist; he uses the grip to turn Alistair’s hand over, then holds it gently.  “Alistair, you seem very nervous.  Is it because you would like to have sex with me?”

To hear it stated so baldly rather shocks Alistair, and without thinking, he laughs.  Zevran smiles a little as Alistair blurts, “Yes.  Unless… unless you don’t?  I mean, Maker, I don’t want to if you don’t.  And… I mean, it might not be any good.  And… is it too soon?  I mean, I know I want to, but then I don’t want to put pressure on you, or to wreck what might…”

Zevran once more puts his hand up to Alistair’s cheek, and the warmth of his palm makes Alistair catch his breath - he gives a short gasp, his eyes fall closed and he pushes his cheek against Zevran’s hand.  And with that, he moves forward, purely on instinct - his own hand moving up and out, encircling Zevran’s waist, pulling him closer, their lips meeting.  He feels Zevran give a small huffing breath, a twist of his lips as they kiss; he is smiling, Alistair can see it quite clearly there in his minds eye, and it makes him smile also.  Quickly, he breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead on Zevran’s, still not opening his eyes.  “Thank you for saving me from myself,” he murmurs, and Zevran chuckles.  

 

“You do not need saving,” he tells Alistair, “How can I make you believe that you are doing fine?”

“Come upstairs with me,” Alistair mumbles without thinking, then squeezes his eyes shut with embarrassment at the desperation inherent in this line.  But Zevran only chuckles again, and moves away to open the car door and slip out.

 

-|||-

 

Alistair isn’t sure how, but here they are - he’s fumbling the keys out of his pocket, by some kind of miracle the key goes into the lock first try, and Maker, he can feel Zevran at his back as some kind of warm presence.  The lights are all off - Cullen must be out still, or staying away, or… _oh, who cares?_ Alistair asks himself, _he’s not here, you’ve got the place to yourself, go, just, just… say something, do something!_

 

He pushes the door open, stumbles a little on the step as he tries to turn and see Zevran’s expression.  “Here we are,” he says, “So, um…” a beat of silence ensues, then Alistair asks rather lamely, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Zevran smiles, and steps closer to Alistair.  He slides his hands around Alistair’s waist and raises a foot to kick the door gently closed behind him.  “No thank you,” he murmurs softly, and Alistair swallows.  “I would like you to kiss me again, if you would like to.”

 

“Oh,” Alistair grins.  “Yes please.”

Zevran smirks, pressing his body against Alistair’s, moving his hands upward over his back.  Their noses brush; Alistair is unwilling to close his eyes, but Zevran’s face is so close now, he has to keep moving his gaze from one eye to the other.  Quietly, Zevran laughs, and mutters, “Now, Alistair.  Don’t tease, please.”

His breath is so warm, his body so perfectly fitted into Alistair’s arms that it is a simple matter to do as he wishes.  As their lips touch, at first rather shyly, then more hungrily, Alistair cannot help thinking, _Isn’t that it?  It’s… Maker, it’s so good to be wanted._

 

They stand in the dim gloom of the front room for what seems to Alistair only a very short while.  He isn’t really thinking anymore - simply reacting to whatever Zevran does.  The way he opens his mouth as he kisses, the change in rhythm - first slow and sensual, now firmer, teeth catching his bottom lip briefly, making him groan and press forward harder - Alistair simply responds.  He is overcome with this, the purity and depth of his desire, the feeling of Zevran’s body in his arms, the hands under his t-shirt.  Zevran moves quickly, pulling Alistair closer to him, bringing his head down and twisting his face to the side, kissing and licking at Alistair’s neck.  “Braska,” he murmurs softly, “Alistair, if you wish it, take me to bed.”

“Oh,” Alistair breathes, then swallows, suddenly more nervous than he has ever been.  “Um...yes, but… My room’s a mess, I…”

Zevran laughs softly, “Believe me when I say I do not care.  Please.”

“Alright then,” Alistair grins, then bites his lips together as he catches hold of Zevran’s hand and walks quickly through the house toward his room.  

 

-|||-

 

He does not bother to turn the lights on.  The soft, bluish light from the streetlamp outside glimmers through the open curtains, complimented by the tepid light of the half moon.  Alistair turns to face Zevran, who smiles at him and, without a word, pulls off his t-shirt, letting it drop to the floor.  As his eyes rove over Zevran’s torso, Alistair grits his teeth - there are beautiful images on the smooth skin of Zevran’s chest, over his arms, the dancing, deadly crows on his arms, swirling dark ribbons which mimic the shape of the two by his eye, a Heart of Andraste, the word _Arainai_ arching over his stomach, just under his ribs.  He glances up, catches Zevran’s smirk and feels himself blush.  “I.. uh,” he manages, then thinks _fuck it_ , and pulls his own t-shirt off.

 

“Ah,” Zevran murmurs as he steps closer, “This is more like it.  You are so very beautiful, Alistair, look…” he trails a finger over the ridge of Alistair’s pectoral muscle, down over his ribs, leaving a delightful shivering, tickling sensation in his wake, and Alistair gasps.  “Beautiful,” Zevran repeats, not lifting his eyes from Alistair’s chest; his other hand comes out, caresses gently over Alistair’s arm, squeezing gently at the muscles as Alistair fights the urge to argue.   _Beautiful_ seems too… too much, somehow, too strong.  But the way that Zevran is admiring him, almost… almost worshiping him… it makes him feel so wonderful, not really awkward, or not any more than he usually feels and… and this is just, just so… Alistair takes a deep breath, reaching out purely on instinct and bends down, crushing his lips once more into Zevran’s.

 

Zevran laughs a little, then before Alistair can pull back and apologise, Zevran has pushed back, kissing him harder, walking him backwards toward the unmade bed.  The back of Alistair’s knees hit it and he resists for a moment before Zevran, with surprising strength, pushes him again, hard enough that Alistair flops backwards with a small noise of shock.  Zevran laughs again, Alistair grins at him in the silvery light, and Zevran knee-walks up, straddling his hips, putting his hands either side of Alistair’s head before bending down and kissing him again.

 

It’s slower this time, more languid and decadent.  Alistair moans a little as Zevran rocks his hips forward - he can feel how hard Zevran’s cock is already, and Maker it feels good, the feel of them against each other.  He’s rapidly becoming lost in each moment, losing all sense of the world outside this room.  The _heat_ of it, each feeling - the way that Zevran moves his hands down, shifting his hips again so that he might undo Alistair’s pants, opening them wide and fondling his cock through the thin fabric of his underwear.  Alistair gasps at the sensation, and blurts, “Zev, I… just…”

 

“Hmm?” Zevran enquires, moving his mouth to kiss along Alistair’s neck, down his shoulder and onto his chest.  Then he pauses, seems to realise how rigid Alistair’s gone, and sits up, looking concerned.  “What is it, Alistair?”

Alistair swallows and smiles - but it is tense, very awkward.  “I... um…”

There is silence for a while, then Zevran moves off Alistair, sliding to one side.  “We do not have to…”

“No, no, it’s not that, it’s just…” Alistair begins, then pauses again, staring at Zevran for a moment.  “I… um.  I want to.  I do.  It’s just…”

 

More silence.  Then finally, Zevran sighs quietly and says gently, “If you want to, then we will.  If you do not, then we don’t.  There is nothing puzzling about this, Alistair.”

“I know that,” Alistair tells him, rather crossly, then moves up, resting on his elbows.  He looks away from Zevran and tells him, “Just… I don’t want… you know.”

“I do not know,” Zevran says - and though his tone of voice is still concerned, Alistair is sure he hears a note of frustration in it. “And I will not unless you tell m…”

“I don’t want you in me.  I mean, I do, but not... Not up the… in the…”  Alistair scowls, wrinkling his nose, then he shuts his eyes and sighs.  “I’ve never done it like that before, and… I mean… I don’t know.  Maybe.  But not this time.  So…”  He huffs a breath and says quickly, “I wanna suck your cock?”

 

He hears a short, sharp huff of breath from Zevran, and opens his eyes.  Zevran is looking at him, a rather insolent smirk on his face, and Alistair feels such shame that he lowers his gaze quickly.  “I didn’t,” he begins, and then Zevran moves forward quickly.

“You beautiful man,” he murmurs as he bends down, straddling Alistair’s hips again.  He puts his hands one on either side of Alistair’s face, palms warm under his jaw, and tells him, “Thank you for telling me.  You, my friend, are brave,” he kisses Alistair gently, moving his hands slightly, “and beautiful,” he kisses Alistair again, just on the point of his jaw, “and I would like to suck your cock as well.  Perhaps there is a way in which we can both be accommodated in our desire at the same time.  Tell me, are you familiar with what the Orlesians call _soixante-neuf_?”

 

 _Why’s he bringing Orlesian’s into this_? Alistair wonders in confusion, but manages to shake his head.  Zevran grins.  “Shall I show you?”

“Uh, alright,” Alistair says nervously, and Zevran chuckles.  

“It is nothing to worry about,” he mutters, moving off Alistair, “I will lie down on my back.  You will lie over the top of me, so that I might suck your cock.  You can suck mine at the same time if you wish - but only if you wish.  If you start and do not want to continue, then that is fine.  I will tap your hip twice before I come.  Though we will both have protection.”  Zevran’s smirk becomes wider, and he moves his hand in an airy gesture, “And you will need to remove your pants, of course.”

“Of course,” Alistair repeats, then bites his cheek, trying to stifle a giggle.  Zevran arches an eyebrow at him, and Alistair bites harder, then chuckles and looks down.  “Sorry,” he mutters, and Zevran laughs before rising up onto his haunches to undo his pants.

 

“There is nothing to apologise for,” he says, wiggling his hips as he opens his pants and pushes them off.  He’s completely unembarrassed, and Alistair stares at him for a moment, before blinking, realising that he should be doing the same.  He scoots to the edge of the bed, skin feeling tingly with excitement and nerves, and pushes his own trousers down, then his underwear.  He steps out of them, turning to face Zevran, who is now lying on the bed, his hair a beautiful silvery blond in the pale light of the streetlamp.  Zevran grins, raises an eyebrow once more and asks, “Do you have protection?”

“Uh, yes, somewhere…” Alistair tells him, diving for his bedside drawers.  He unearths a box of condoms, still unopened - tears the lid off and hands one to Zevran, who winks at him and tears the foil packet carefully.  Alistair watches him closely, wonderingly.   _He must have had a lot of sex_ , he thinks and feels his ego rather crushed at the thought.  Will he be just another notch on the headboard to Zevran?  Some big dumb Fereldan boy he can laugh about to his world-weary friends?  Alistair catches his breath, looks down to his waning erection.  Half-heartedly, he tugs at it, trying to retrieve the mood of only a few moments before.  He feels Zevran move behind him, then soft, warm hands on his back, lips on his neck.  “Alistair,” Zevran purrs into his ear, “Come.  Oh, are you..?”

 

“Nearly,” Alistair says, and closes his eyes, surrendering himself to the feeling of Zevran’s hands on his body, the soft kisses on his neck, his own touch.  He finally feels himself return to hardness, and breathes a sigh of relief; he puts his own condom on.  Zevran’s hand is on his hip - as soon as Alistair is finished, he shifts his hand, grips Alistair’s cock lightly, running his hand up and down the length of it and lets out a small, satisfied grunt.  “I want you, Alistair,” he growls, his opposing hand on the side of Alistair’s neck, “I want you with me.  However you would like to be, I will be here.”

 

“Uh huh,” is all Alistair can manage - he shifts, that feeling of sweet abandonment rising once more within him, quenching the concern of only a moment before.  He smiles lightly, following Zevran as he lays down on the bed once more.  They kiss, Zevran’s hand still on Alistair’s cock, stroking gently; Alistair’s hand rests on Zevran’s hip.  He can feel the slight motion of it, the rocking back and forward - but as soon as he moves his hand to grasp Zevran’s cock, Zevran shifts back and murmurs breathlessly, “Alistair please, let me… Come up, please, over me.”

Alistair wriggles up, feeling a trifle odd about it, but Zevran gently guides him using hands and soothing words, and soon Alistair is positioned so that he straddles Zevran’s face.  The elf’s hand works on him, and then Alistair gasps as Zevran’s lips go around the head of his cock, enveloping him in his hot, slick mouth.

 

Maker, it feels good.  So good.  He can’t think, he feels as if all the thoughts in his head are nothing, gone, completely irrelevant.  Alistair revels in the sensation, all that beautiful heat around his cock, the way Zevran holds the base of it with one hand, the other hand at Alistair’s tailbone, pressing lightly, encouraging him deeper.  Then Zevran gives a long, low moan of pure desire, and Alistair whispers, “Holy shit, Zev, I… you’re, this is…”

Maybe Zevran smiles at that; if Alistair wasn’t so far gone to the feeling, then he might have felt the expression.  But the abandonment grows within him, blossoming into a huge shape; he can feel his fingers clutch at the sheets, whispers, “Maker, fuck, Maker, I’m… oh Zev, shit,” takes a deep, sudden gasp of air and opens his eyes.

 

He grins at the sight - Zevran’s long cock, dark with blood, hard and arcing out from his body.  It nestles in a thatch of fine, silky looking light blond hair, and Alistair feels a wave of warm emotion pass through him.   _Beautiful,_ he thinks disjointedly, then closes his eyes again.  Slowly, he lowers his head; he lays gentle, soft kisses against the points of each of Zevran’s hips, then across his belly, down his thighs.  Zevran bucks very slightly into his touch, and Alistair smiles.  He feels eager, excited, but also nervous, more nervous than ever.  What if he fucks it up?   _Maker, stop thinking!_ he scolds himself, as his toes curl when Zevran groans again, _it can’t be that hard!  Oh no, don’t laugh, don’t laugh, it’s hard, yes but…_  He bites the side of his cheek, fists the sheets, and takes a deep breath, then moves a hand to Zevran’s cock.  Gently, he lifts it slightly, angling it, then opens his mouth before giving the tip an experimental suck.

 

Zevran’s mouth pauses on him, and then he resumes his motions - but there is something more desperate, something insistent about his movements now.  Slowly, Alistair takes Zevran’s cock deeper into his mouth.  The condom tastes odd, but it hardly matters to Alistair now - he pants through his nose, working his hand up and down Zevran’s shaft, feeling the tense and shift of the muscles under his skin.  He begins to move his head, bobbing it up and down, exhaling sharply when Zevran gives another low, muffled-sounding groan and the vibration of it zings through him.  Some part of his mind keeps trying to reassert some semblance of control; but Alistair wants, suddenly, desperately, to give it all up.  He sucks harder, plunging down further on Zevran’s cock.  It hits the back of his throat and he gags a little, wanting to swallow or cough, feels his own saliva around his fingers.  Almost mindless now, hardly caring about the ache in the arm which takes his weight or the discomfort in his neck or wrist at the repetitive movement, sensible only to the feel of the cock in his mouth and the mouth on his cock, Alistair takes Zevran deeper into his throat again, swallowing around him.  He revels in the feeling, the unbridled-ness of the want, the way the pleasure seems to come from two sources, the deep, heavy feeling of his impending orgasm almost subsuming him.  Then Alistair feels two sharp taps on his back - there is a long, anticipatory moment where Alistair sucks harder, moving his head up and down in what he prays is a pleasurable way, then Zevran’s cock jerks a little and Alistair feels his nails dig into the skin of his back, the grip of his hand tighten on his cock, and Zevran gives a loud, hoarse shout.  Alistair gasps, bucks his hips, unable to keep still any longer - he exalts, the blazing whiteness all through his head, then groans as he comes, hard.

 

It seems like a year at least before he can draw breath.  Reluctantly, he shifts his hips and moves his mouth off Zevran’s cock, sliding to the side.  His body hits the slightly clammy feeling sheets, and he sits up slowly, every muscle in his body feeling like he’d run a mile.  His heart beats fast and he looks at Zevran, knowing he is grinning like an idiot, but powerless to stop himself.  Zevran smirks at him and sighs, before sitting up to grab the blankets at the bottom of the bed.  He lies back down, raises an arm and gesturing Alistair to him.

 

Alistair’s smile widens.  He moves quickly, tucking himself under Zevran’s arm, snuggling down against him.  Zevran chuckles, the sound of it rumbling through his chest, and Alistair feels him pluck at the used condom, pulling it off and tying it.  Without shifting his comfortable position, Alistair does the same, pulling his hips back a little bit and, after it is tied, chucking it over the side of the bed.   _Gross_ , he thinks tiredly, rather pleased with himself.   _That’s going to be horrible to find in the morning._  He grins when Zevran squeezes him tightly, rapidly falling toward sleep.  The world seems so beautiful, so glorious and decadent - to lie here in the arms of this wonderful man is so perfect it hardly seems real.   _Like a dream_ , he thinks to himself.  Zevran murmurs something that Alistair doesn’t quite catch, but he murmurs his agreement and smiles.  Sleep takes him quickly.

 

-|||-

 

When he awakes, he is alone.  Alistair sits up in the bed, feeling sweaty and bleary, staring around at the empty room.  He frowns at the other side of the bed, searching for a note - nothing.  Frowning, he throws off the blankets, gets up; he finds his pants on the other side of the bed, pulls his phone out of his pocket.  One text notification - thank the Maker, Zevran.   Alistair’s heart swells, even as his stomach drops: _trouble_ he keeps hearing repeated in his head, everyone who’s warned him about Zevran, everyone who’s cautioned him.  He sighs shakily and reads: _ty for last night.  So beautiful!  I hope we may do it again soon!_ There is a winking emoji, then _Come out with me 2moro - 8? at the bistro?_ Alistair swallows, smiling - but the smile is tense.  He feels… what?  Like they’d shared something special, and now… Now it was… But he doesn’t know.   _He just didn’t want you to feel weird_ , he tells himself, _Don’t make a big deal out of nothing_ .  The phone feels heavy in his hand all of a sudden, so Alistair quickly texts back, _yes!  see you then.  and YES, it was lovely.  You were lovely.  I lo_ … his thumbs pause over the letters _V_ and _E_ , and he quickly deletes the last phrase before hitting send.  Then he puts his phone down on the bed, and sits, gazing into space for what feels like a very long time.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things go wrong, and then get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags: love confessions, bad timing, violence mentions, injury mentions, hurt/comfort (the comfort doesn't come this chapter though, just the hurtin').   
> Varric is a new character this chapter.
> 
> Welcome to Angst town, kittens.

Alistair sits up straighter when the door opens, then slumps again when two laughing humans come into the bustling restaurant.  Where is Zevran?   _ It’s only been half an hour, _ he thinks,  _ maybe… maybe traffic is bad. _  But it’s eight thirty on a Tuesday, and even in the central city, that usually means that the worst of the traffic has gone.  Alistair glances at his phone again, wondering if he should text.  He’s already sent three though, so… perhaps not.   _ But what if he’s in trouble _ ? he wonders, and frowns.  Silently, he wills the door to open, Zevran to come through it, all blustered apologies and laughter - but instead, he hears a  _ harrumph! _ at his elbow and turns.

 

It is Sigrun, the dwarf with the tattoos.  She smiles at him, rather ruefully, then says, “Doesn’t look like he’s coming, huh?”

“He’s… it’s probably just…” Alistair stammers, then folds his hands together on the tabletop and sighs.  “No.  It doesn’t.”

“Ah well,” Sigrun says, then asks, “You want another beer?  On the house.”

“Uh, no.”  Alistair cannot bring himself to look at her as he asks, “Do… do you see this often?  Him standing people up?  He said he came here a lot and…”

Sigrun touches his shoulder gently, and Alistair looks at her, stricken.  “Hey,” she says slowly, “Like you said.  It’s probably just…” she shrugs, “Something.  Zev… he’s a good guy.  He’s got a good heart.  I think.  Like, he fucks around, yeah, he seems to be a bit of a player, but… I mean, he never stiffs on a tip, and I’ve never seen anyone leave here in tears because of him.  I just… I mean, I don’t know you, guy.  And really, I don’t know him either.  But from what I’ve seen… He’ll have a good reason.”  She pauses, squeezing his shoulder.  “But… I mean, man… I hate having to do this but… if he’s not here in ten, we’re gonna need the table.”

 

“Oh.  Oh, of course,” he says, knowing his voice sounds overly formal, trying desperately not to let his sadness show.   _ If he had a good reason _ , he thinks to himself as his guts churn, as Sigrun looks at him with that small, sad smile around her mouth,  _ then he’d text me.  He’d tell me what was up, if he was such a good guy _ .  But it’s his own fault - he knows it.  If only he could express himself better - if only he’d been able to say how he felt, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.  He’d said it in his head a hundred times;  _ Zevran, I love you.  I think I’m in love with you. _  And now…

 

Alistair gets up, almost knocking his chair over in the process.  Sigrun stares up at him, puzzled, and he grins at her.  “Sorry.  I… I’m just gonna go.  You’re right, I’m sure he’d… you know.  He’d tell me.  Thanks.  Thank you.  I…”  He swallows and shrugs.  Sigrun nods, her brow creasing.

 

“Okay,” she says, then taps the stylus, which prints a small slip of paper.  “Here.  No charge, okay?”

“No, I couldn’t, that…” Her pity makes him feel worse somehow - she must see it on his face, because she grins and shakes her head.  

“Yeah, alright then. I ain’t gonna make ya have a free beer, if you wanna pay so bad,” she chuckles, and taps her stylus again, printing out a second small piece of paper, “Don’t forget to tip big, my guy.”

“I won’t,” he tells her, and takes the paper.  She nods, and he heads to the counter, trying to ignore how heavy his heart feels, how much his stomach aches.

 

-|||-

 

“So… you haven’t heard from him at all?  It’s been two days, and nothing?” Surana asks, aghast.  She leans against the wall of the cubicle where they write up their various reports.  Weisshaupt has become a bear for paperwork since the last Blight, and it makes Alistair’s head ache.  He sighs.  “No.  Nothing.  Do we have to talk about this now?”

 

“No,” she says slowly, and frowns, folding her arms.  “It’s just… Al, really? Like… you guys did the do and then… he just… never texted?  Never called?   _ In two days? _ ”  Her frown deepens, mouth twisting as she pulls on the point of one ear.  It’s a gesture of puzzlement, he’s seen it before.  Then she shakes her head.  “Wow.  Are you sure he’s okay?”

“I don’t know,” Alistair says tiredly, “I haven’t heard from him, remember?”

“Oh.  Yeah.  Sorry.”  Her frown changes, becomes contrite, then shifts again as she looks at him.  “It’s just… he’s not just a mage rights guy, right?  I think I remember you saying that, yeah?”

Alistair nods, finally giving up the illusion that he might get this report written sometime before five, and turns in his chair to face her.  He sighs, looking at her questioningly, and she pulls at her ear again.

 

“I mean… I remember Mo’ saying something about a bust the other night.  A big one, like, some Guard, some Templars… like… some kind of sting or something.  It was a bunch of people all working together.  The paper called them insurrectionists; it was a local jurisdiction thing, and you know the official Warden line on that shit.  But she said it was some kind of… it was definitely people involved with the mage rights thing, but also some other stuff too.  Elf rights as well.”  She shakes her head, “I don’t know, Al.  Might be worth looking into.”

 

“Maker’s Breath,” he murmurs, knowing his eyes have gone wide.  “You didn’t… you don’t think he’s been…  _ arrested _ , do you?”

“I don’t know,” she tells him again, “But be careful.  This shit is moving into the next level now.  People are gonna get hurt like they did in Starkhaven and in Orlais.”  Surana shakes her head, her big, dark eyes worried.  “Be careful, Al.”

She moves her body so that she is upright, no longer leaning on the wall.  For a moment, they look at each other, then she says quietly, “I’ll tell the boss if you wanna go early.”

He exhales sharply, “Yeah.  Would you?  Maker, I just… I know it was maybe a one time thing, but this… this is going to eat at me and…”

Surana smiles, “Yeah, yeah, Al.  Not just a Chantry boy, but a white knight too.”  She flaps her hand and grins at him, though her eyes are still very concerned, “Get out of here.”

 

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

 

-|||-

 

The last message he’d sent to Zevran’s number still makes him feel guilty:  _ If you don’t want to see me anymore, please just tell me _ .  He’d sent it last night, after coming home from the bistro.  But now he looks at it, wondering if Zevran had even seen it.  He comes out of the building, into the gloomy light of the late afternoon, and looks up and down the street.  Where should he go?   _ Let me know if there’s anything else you need to talk about _ , he hears again in his head and his eyes widen.  The Library.  Maybe, if what Surana said was correct, then maybe the nice librarian might know something.   _ Librarians always know stuff _ , he thinks, feeling hope swell in his chest, and he directs his steps toward the bus which will take him to the Central branch.  

 

“Haven’t seen him,” the dwarf at the desk says, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.  “Who’s asking?”

“Uh, my name is Alistair - I spoke to him the other day.  Anders helped me find some information on the history of the mage rights movement.  It was… I was trying to find out more about it, the history and stuff.  I recently started going to protests, and I was at the public meeting the other day.  Please.   I’m looking for someone.  His name is Zevran.  I think maybe either Anders or… hey, do you know a tattoo artist named Isabela?”  He spreads his hands, looking at the dwarf, willing to beg if that’s what it will take, and the dwarf looks at him worriedly, then looks left and right, before leaning forward in his seat.

 

“I remember.  Meet me up in the section Anders took you to, in about five minutes, okay?” the dwarf tells him quietly, then sits back.  “Hey, I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says rather more loudly than before, “But we’ve got a sweet book sale at the moment.  It’s upstairs, on your left if you want to check it out.”

“Uh… okay.  Thanks.  Thanks anyway,” Alistair tells him, then points upstairs and nods.  The dwarf nods quickly back, then turns away from him, going back to the computer.  Alistair sighs, and walks toward the stairs.

 

-|||-

 

It feels desolate, up here in the history stacks.  It still smells strange too, stranger than it did the other day in the light of the Sunday sun.  Alistair ranges up and down the shelves, looking at the titles of the books, frowning in concern.  Titles keep jumping out at him:  _ Bitter Legacy: Chantry Doctorine and the Magic-Enabled - The Necessity of the Nevarran Accord - Rites and Wrongs: Circle Uprisings Across the Exalted Age _ .   He’d looked at many of these books on Sunday, still with Anders’ warnings about bias ringing in his ears.  Is there any hope?  Will he ever understand it?   _ It isn’t as bad these days _ , he tells himself, then wonders if perhaps that’s just him wanting to justify his lack of action.  Alistair swallows, then turns when he hears a small cough behind him.

 

It’s the dwarf.  He smiles ruefully up at Alistair, and holds out a piece of paper.  “Here,” he says quietly, “This is where Izzy works.  If anyone knows where he is, she will.  If she’s still there.  Anders is still being held, so is Tal.  Hawke, I mean.  They moved fast, man, no-one had time to do anything.  Dorian and Felix are on it, they reckon the case is good.”  He smiles at Alistair ruefully, and Alistair takes the piece of paper.  The dwarf sighs, and shrugs.  “It’d be good to know where Zev went.  I hear they got him pretty good.”

 

Alistair shakes his head, still holding the piece of paper between his thumb and forefinger.  He stares at the dwarf, then asks, his throat dry, “Got him?  Who got him?”

The dwarf sighs again and murmurs, “Guard.  Probably.  Nothing like a pair of pointed ears to increase the paranoia of the local constabulary.”  He looks down at the floor and says, “Zev… was there, in the flat when they pounced.  Izzy and me, and Merrill, we’d gone out for pizza and beer, keep the boat afloat, you know?”  He swallows and looks at Alistair again, “We didn’t know.  None of us knew.  But then I got a call from Ave… someone we know, who calls us when shit goes down.”  He cocks his head slightly, still looking at Alistair, then smiles.  “You must really think he’s pretty special.  Anders told me about you comin’ in the other day, and that he’d seen you and Zev after that fiasco of a debate.  Said that he’d never seen Zev look like that with anyone else.”  The dwarf sighs and runs a hand through his hair.  “Look.  I hope it all works out.  And I hope you’ll be able to find him.  But just… don’t be too disappointed if you can’t.  Zev knows how to go to ground better than anyone I know.  Izzy will know where he is - but don’t be surprised if she won’t give him up.”  The dwarf shrugs, looks over his shoulder.  “I gotta go.  Good luck, man.”

 

“Thanks,” Alistair says quietly, and the dwarf slips away.  Alistair stares after him as the gloom deepens.

 

-|||-

 

Night begins to fall across the city, and Alistair strides up the broken path of a small block of flats.  This is the address that he’d eventually wrangled out of Isabela.  “He won’t want to see you,” she’d told him stonily, her immaculately shaped eyebrow arched, the noise of the tattoo shop loud behind her, the stink of antiseptic in Alistair’s nose.  “If he’s not texting back, why don’t you take the hint, honeybunch?”  But he notes the worried way in which she crosses her arms under her bosom, the way that she won’t meet his eye.  

“Please.  I just want to know he’s alright,” Alistair had told her firmly.  She had scoffed, then sighed, stared at him hard.  “If you give  _ anyone _ else this address, I’ll cheerfully kill you,” she’d told him seriously, and he’d nodded.

 

He knocks at the door to flat 7F, looking around him.  This is deep into the Alienage, this address, and he’s heard that any human has to be careful here.  “Zevran?” he calls softly, “It’s me.  Uh… Alistair.”  He listens carefully, but all he can hear is the wail of distant sirens and a woman’s voice, loud through the walls.  Frowning, he raises his fist to knock again, then the door opens a crack.  “Alistair,” Zevran mutters, “Go away.  It…there is no reason for you…”

 

But it’s too late.  Alistair gasps in shock - Zevran’s eye is black, there is a cut just underneath it.  “Zev?” he says, louder than he’d intended, “Shit, what..?”

Zevran sighs, and opens the door.  One arm is in a sling, and he grins at Alistair - but there is no trace of humour or goodwill in it.  “I was arrested.  Yesterday.  I am still not sure what for, though that has never stopped them before.”  He sighs harshly and looks away, then tells Alistair, “I think you should go.”

“But Zev, please… what can I do, I want to…”

 

Zevran moves his head, winces, then Alistair watches a mask descend over his features.  “You cannot do anything,” he spits suddenly, “There is nothing any of us can do.  But especially not a well meaning shemlen like yourself.  Alistair, I know… I know your heart is in the right place.  But I… I am not the one for you.  Give it up.  Go back to your life, find a beautiful person, make a family, live out your life in blissful ignorance.”  He won’t meet Alistair’s eyes as he repeats, “I am not the one for you.  Goodbye, Alistair.”

“But… but,” Alistair stammers, his hands outstretched.  For a beat, they stand there, doing nothing, then Zevran slowly closes the door.  Alistair listens to the latch click into place, hears the scrape of several locks behind it.  “But… I love you,” he whispers to the chipped paintwork, to the corroded brass letters 7F.  The sirens arc and descend again, coming closer.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which silence reigns and then is broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry for the unannounced break! Also, quite a lot of violence in this chapter - be warned, my lovelies)

Alistair blinks rapidly, looks at Morrigan and asks, “Sorry, what?”

 

She looks at him, exasperated, and Surana grins.  “Go on, Mo’,” she murmurs, poking her girlfriend in the arm, “Don’t be a cow.”

Morrigan makes a clicking noise in the back of her throat and rolls her eyes.  “I  _ said _ ,” she tells him, “That it’s happening this weekend.  Saturday, in fact.  If you weren’t just along for the ride, I mean.”

Alistair scowls at her, confused, and she huffs, pointing at the sign he’d been staring at, “You’ve been looking at it for the last half hour, Alistair?  Are you planning to go to the march, or are you simply staring at it like a simpleton, dreaming of that elf that you were mooning over?”

 

“I wasn’t  _ mooning! _ ” he blusters, blushing fiercely, and Surana laughs.

“You were,” she tells him gleefully; and then, her expression shifts.  “Oh.  Uh.  But… I mean, if it’s too soon…”

“Ridiculous,” Morrigan mutters, pursing her lips in a moue of disapproval.  “Either you care enough about the cause of mage rights to come to the march on Saturday and make yourself heard, Alistair, or you were merely performing a role to get the interest of this elf.”  She sniffs and averts her eyes, “I did not think it was possible for my opinion of you to sink much lower, but…”

 

Alistair frowns at her and shakes his head.  “Can… can we just leave Zevran out of this?  I… I might have other things to do on Saturday…”

“Or,” Morrigan continues as if she has not heard him, “You were never interested in this  _ Zevran _ at all.  Perhaps you only meant to…”

“Mo’,” Surana murmurs and squeezes the other woman’s arm.  “That’s enough now.”

Morrigan huffs and draws her arm away.  “Well,” she says, “I cannot be blamed if Alistair has both the stench and the emotional capabilities of a wounded mabari.  I thought that perhaps…”

Alistair sighs and stands up.  “Yeah, yeah,” he says, feeling exhausted.  He digs his wallet out and opens it, puts a few bills on the cafe table and tells them, “I’m going back to the office.”

 

“But Al, you’ve hardly sat down…” Surana begins, sitting up straighter and opening her hands wide.  “Please, at least wait for…”

“I’m not hungry,” he tells them quickly, and Surana looks at him, shocked.  

“But you’re  _ always _ hungry!” she says, and he grins in a hangdog way and shakes his head.  

“Not today.  See you,” he tells them and begins walking back toward the Warden’s building.

 

Ten days, going on eleven, and nothing.  Not a whisper, not a text, nothing from Zevran at all.  It was like he’d been a figment of Alistair’s imagination.  He hadn’t been back to the bistro or the library - had been avoiding any of the places that reminded him of Zevran, because quite frankly, he hated this… this disquiet, this wretched worry which curled in his guts every time he thought of him.  And their one night together… Alistair swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked along in the sunshine, the lunchtime crowds moving around him.  He sighed, resolving not to think about it further.  It was better that he not go to this new march.   _ Live out your life in blissful ignorance _ , that’s what he’d said - and if Zevran told him to do it, then… well.  Perhaps he should.

 

When he comes home that night, Cullen is waiting for him.  “Al?” he asks cautiously, then glances away and rubs the back of his neck.  “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Alistair glares at him suspiciously.  He and Cullen had been civil to each other, but the camaraderie which had distinguished their relationship up to this point had evaporated with the events of the other night.  “Maybe,” he says slowly, then cocks his head, “What’s it about?”

He watches as Cullen swallows, seemingly nervous.  “Sorry,” the other man says suddenly, “You’ve just got in.  I… I didn’t mean to bombard you as soon as you wal…”

“Just say it, Cullen.”  Alistair takes a deep breath and then sighs it out.  “Whatever it is.”

 

“I… alright.”  Cullen nods, frowning, then his shoulders slump.  “I wanted to apologise.  For the other day.”

When Alistair stays silent, Cullen continues, “I had no right to say that.  About your… friend.  I just… I mean, I’m not very…”

“Tolerant?” Alistair asks viciously and instantly regrets it.  “I’m sorry, I…”

“No.  No, it’s fine. I deserve that.”  Cullen shoves his hands into his pockets.  “That’s what Lee said too.  I just… ever since… well.  You know.  I suppose I’m just…”

 

“You’re going on past experiences,” Alistair says softly, trying to keep the judgement out of his tone.  “And I suppose that’s better than what I used to do.  I… before I got involved in this, I just… I used to assume that mages were… a certain way.  Like you did.  Like you do.  But unlike you, I never had first-hand experience of what could happen.  And I don’t know if that’s better or worse. But the thing is, Cullen, the thing is, that we’re both assuming the worst.  Maybe… just maybe, do you think it could be possible to assume the best?”

 

Cullen smiles sadly and shakes his head.  “I don’t know,” he says quietly, “I… I hope so.  I don’t think I’ll ever be able to trust the magic enabled.  But… I don’t want what I said to ruin our friendship.  And I do hope it all works out with your friend.”

 

Alistair sighs and steps inside, closing the door behind him, shutting out the sound of the light traffic on the suburban street.  He digs his keys out of his pocket, and his phone, then murmurs, “That’s probably over with.  I haven’t heard from him in almost two weeks.”

Cullen frowns, his mouth opening, but Alistair shakes his head.  “Don’t worry.  I think… I think he meant more to me than I did to him.”

 

“Oof.  That’s awful,” Cullen says quickly, moving into the kitchen.  Alistair hears the fridge open, then a moment later, Cullen appears with two bottles of beer, one of which he hands to Alistair.  “You wanna… uh, talk about it?”

“Nope,” Alistair tells him, and Cullen looks so relieved that Alistair laughs.  Cullen chuckles and shrugs.  “Well,” he says, “You can’t say I didn’t offer.”

“You’re right about that,” Alistair tells him and looks at the floor for a moment.  Before he has time to think about it too much, he says, “Hey.  I’m… gonna go to the march on Saturday.  The mage rights one.  They let those two guys out, Anders and Hawke.  And… I mean, I met Anders.  He’s a librarian.  He’s really nice.  Maybe… maybe once he’s back at work, you could… we could go talk to him?”

 

Cullen frowns again and is silent for a long time.  Alistair is about to tell him to forget it, he didn’t mean it, it was a stupid idea anyway, when Cullen nods.  “Alright.  I… I’ll come and meet him.  If he’s okay with that.  But Al, I don’t think I can come to the march.  It’s not… I mean…” he shakes his head and Alistair nods vigorously.  Cullen smiles a little and says, “Thanks.  You’re a sweet guy.  Don’t let this business with that Zevran put you off your game, okay?”

Alistair rolls his eyes.  “‘Course not,” he blusters, “Anyway, let’s not stand around talking about our  _ feelings _ all night.  Let’s eat.”

Cullen laughs and claps Alistair on the shoulder, before turning and striding back into the kitchen.  “How did I know you’d say that?”

 

-|||-

 

Saturday dawns, overcast and chilly.  Summer is finally on the wane - days shortening, the leaves on the trees beginning to change their shades.  The march is going to start assembling at eleven - the idea is, according to Surana, to arrive at the Town Hall by noon, thereby maximising the number of people exposed to their message.  Alistair laces his boots, trying not to think of anything but what lies ahead; trying not to hope he’ll see a familiar flash of smile or hear a familiar laugh in the crowd.  He straightens, grinning at Cullen, who looks at him worriedly.  “Are you sure about this?” he asks.

 

“Yes,” Alistair tells him firmly.  He picks up his backpack, shoulders it, and takes a deep breath.  “I’ll be back about midnight.  Just… you know.  So someone knows where I’m s’posed to be.”

Cullen nods grimly, and his shoulders slump a little.  For a moment, Alistair thinks he’ll try to talk him out of it, but when Cullen does finally open his mouth to speak, all he says is, “Good luck then.”

Alistair smiles tensely, and tells him, “Thanks.”  There is a brief pause, then Alistair gestures to the door and says, “Okay.  See you later.”

“See you,” Cullen says softly.  Alistair opens the door, steps outside, and grins, feeling the same old thrill of nervous adventure that he’d felt on the day that he’d felt on the day of his first march.  How much had changed since then.   _ Don’t think about that,  _ he chides himself, and walks down the path onto the street, heading off to meet his bus.

 

-|||-

 

He can’t hear what Hawke is yelling through the loud hailer, the crowd noise is everywhere.  Someone pushes him from behind, and Alistair resists, frowning as he tries to keep Surana and Morrigan in view.  In front of him, he can see a dwarf with red hair and a fierce expression, her placard reading  _ Magic means no fears!  End mage oppression! _  She is yelling something up at a guardsperson, standing in front of City Hall.  The guard has a riot shield and a full face helmet, and from somewhere down the line, Alistair can hear the incessant barking of dogs.  He wonders dispassionately when the worst will happen; when all of a sudden, it does.

 

There is the sound of a shrill whistle, and as if this is the signal they have been waiting for, the guard begins to move forward.  They move as a unit, and as Alistair watches, as his toes are stood on and the people closer to the front than he, begin to move back into him, he sees with dawning horror that their batons are raised.  “No!” he shouts, moving forward against the tide of people, but even as he does the guard bring their batons down, hard against the bodies of the first row of protesters.  “No,” Alistair shouts again, reaching forward, trying to pull people back and out of harms way - he sees a young man holding his hands over his head, blood pouring from between his fingers, another holding onto his friend.  There, over there, as the guard march ever forward, there’s people trying to get out of the way, people from the back pushing toward the front, unaware of what’s going on, perhaps unable to hear the screams of panic from the front.  “Surana!” Alistair yells, unable to see her in the crush of people.  Dogs barking, people screaming and shouting, and Alistair shouts her name again, so loud that it hurts his throat, barely able to hear himself.  

 

_ Oh Maker, oh no, _ he thinks, unable to resist the press of the terrified crowd.  He watches, appalled as a guard’s baton descends again and again against the back of an elf.  Her long floral skirt is pooled around her, the brilliantly coloured print of the fabric in stark contrast to the dull dark grey of the concrete.  She covers her head with her hands, and as a guard moves forward with handcuffs, a tall, muscular young man runs out of the crowd.  “Merrill!” he shouts, sounding furious, “You  _ fucks _ , you  _ leave her alone! _ ”

Without thinking, Alistair has rushed forward, hands outstretched to help the woman, but the young man beats him to it.  He launches himself at the guard with the handcuffs, even as a dark-haired man that Alistair is sure he recognises runs forward, following the first man.  “Carver.  Carver!” the new man yells, but the tall man doesn’t even seem to hear him.  Alistair sees that he has taken the guard by surprise with his attack, and managed to floor the man, but two of his fellows are hauling the young man off, one kneeling in the centre of his back, holding him against the asphalt as he struggles, yelling insults and obscenities at them.  There are people running everywhere, but Alistair moves forward still, crouching next to the woman on the ground.  “Miss?” he asks, bending as close to her head as he can without letting the guards out of his sight, “Miss?  Are you hurt?”

 

“Oooh, Dread Wolf, that was a bit too exciting,” is all the woman has time for, before a guard is there, shoving Alistair away and hauling the woman to her feet.  The young man that Alistair is still sure he recognises from somewhere is yelling, something about rights and legality, walking after the guard who is hauling the man named Carver away, toward a row of detention vans.  The crowd is shifting, and Alistair’s heart sinks further as he hears the sound of breaking glass and whoops of triumph.  “Carver!  Felix!” the woman calls as the guard thrusts her forward, “I’m coming!”  Alistair rises, gazes after her for a moment, then begins to move, walking away from City Hall and into the fray.  

 

Everywhere he looks now, he sees chaos.  Both Morrigan and Surana have disappeared.  In the middle of the street lies discarded placards, someone’s sweatshirt and a lone shoe, among a detritus of upturned rubbish bins and broken glass.  He sees a new line of guards approaching from further down the street and begins moving away from them, even as people run forward, their faces now covered with bandanas, scarfs and swimming goggles.  “...No gas yet,” he hears someone say and is momentarily confused before he realises - tear gas.   _ No _ , he thinks, dismayed and appalled all over again.  There are more and more people running forward now, crowds of them it seems, but all Alistair wants is to get home.  He sees a very worried looking woman, holding a small child in her arms, sheltering behind a car.  Have they been caught at the wrong place at the wrong time?  He doesn’t know - and in that moment, Alistair doesn’t care.  He breaks into a jog, pushing people out of his way, determined to help the woman and the child to safety.  But before he can get there, they are approached by someone else.

 

Zevran crouches in front of the woman, smiling at her.  The smile is strained, Alistair sees, but Zevran keeps it up.  His eye looks better, and though his arm is still bandaged, it is no longer in a sling.  He says something to the woman, then grins at the child, who stops crying for a moment to stare at him.  Zevran helps the woman to her feet, then glances around, obviously casting around for an escape route for her, and catches sight of Alistair.  For a moment, the smile falters and they only look at each other.  Then Zevran nods once, quickly, and Alistair continues over to the small group. 

 

“This is Arianni,” Zevran tells Alistair, just as if they were not standing in the middle of a moment about to get incredibly ugly, “And this handsome young man is Feynriel.  This is my friend Alistair.”  He gestures to Alistair, who smiles awkwardly at Arianni and nods.  Zevran laughs, shoots a glance at the guards rapidly approaching, and sighs.  “This party is getting a little dull, is it not?  Feynriel, my friend, I know you feel like you would like to stay with your mother.  But I have it on good authority that Alistair does  _ incredible _ pony rides.  If it is alright with your mother, perhaps..?”

“Feynie, please,” the young woman says, trying to loosen the boy's hands from around her neck, “I’m right here.  We need to go, please.”

The boy seems as if he will argue, then looks with tear-filled eyes over his shoulder at Alistair.  Alistair smiles at him, and says, “I know it’s scary right now.  But Zevran is a good person.  He’ll get you and your mum out of here.  And I promise I’ll be the best pony ever.”

“Promise?” Feyrniel lisps and Alistair nods seriously.  

“Promise,” he says.  Quickly, he glances at Zevran, who shrugs slightly, looking worried.  Alistair holds out his hands and willingly enough, Feynriel goes to him.  Alistair grins, snorts and whinnies like a horse, and the little boy smiles at him.  Zevran takes Arianni’s hand and tells them all, “Follow me.”

 

Zevran and Arianni head quickly down the street, away from the line of guards, away from the bulk of the disorder.  Alistair crouches slightly as he pulls the little boy higher onto his back, and then is off, following Zevran.  They thread through people running, ignore the people yelling and smashing the huge glass windows of the chain-store retailers.  The little boy’s grip is hard on his neck, but Alistair in that moment does not care - all he sees is Zevran.  Words keep trying to surface in his mind, words about this, what this is, but he does not let them.  Instead, he curls his arms tighter around the boy behind him and only follows.

 

Finally, the noise begins to lessen, the crowds to thin, and Zevran slows.  They are standing at the end of a narrow laneway, graffiti in bright daubs and swirls chasing the walls on either side as if vying to be seen on the main street.  Zevran turns and the boy on Alistair’s back calls, “Mama!”

“I can take him,” Arianni tells Alistair, who, somewhat reluctantly, allows the boy to slip into her arms.  He throws his arms around her neck, snuggling into her and looks at Alistair shyly from the corner of one eye.  “Best horsie,” he tells Alistair tiredly, and Arianni squeezes him and smiles.

 

“Thank you,” she tells Zevran and Alistair softly, “I… I don’t know how we would have gotten out of there if you hadn’t helped us.  I…”

“Do not worry.  I am very glad that we could help.  Or should I say… we are glad.”  Zevran glances at Alistair, who smiles a little and nods.  “Now, do you know where you are?  How will you get home from here?”

“Yes.  I know where we are.  It’s… it’s not too far from here, we can walk.”

“Are you sure?” Alistair asks, already digging for his wallet.  Zevran chuckles a little and touches Arianni’s elbow gently.  

“My friend is quite the white knight, is he not?” he asks, then looks at Alistair, “If Arianni says she is alright, then we must trust that she is.  Goodbye then, Arianni, Feynriel.  It was good to meet you both.  Be safe.”

“You too,” Arianni tells them, hitching the little boy higher in her arms.  She smiles gently, then walks away.  Alistair watches Feynriel watch them both over his mother’s shoulder, then waves back as the boy waves at him.  “Bye-bye, horsey,” the little boy calls, and Alistair smiles.

 

Zevran watches them go, then looks up at Alistair.  “You came,” he says seriously, then sighs.  “What did I tell you, Alistair?  Did you not listen to a word that I said?”

Alistair swallows.  “Yes,” he says, feeling stupid, “I did.  I heard it all.  It’s all I’ve thought about since I left your place.  I just… didn’t believe it. I still don’t.  I…”  For a second, he hesitates, then he says all in a rush, “I think that for some reason you really buy into all this silliness about you being some kind of player or something.  You think you’re trying to protect me.  But you’re a good person, Zevran.  I know it.”  He pauses for a moment, then scowls.  “I’ll go if you tell me to; I’m not such a fool that I’ll stick around where I’m not wanted.  But I need you to know that I’m here for you.”

 

Zevran stares up at him, eyebrows raised.  Crowd noise, the sound of sirens floats back to them, but still, Zevran only looks as if he has been frozen in time.  Slowly, his lips curl into a smile, and his puzzled expression softens.  “Alistair,” he says softly, “I… May never have occasion to say this again, but…” he licks his lips, snorts a quick laugh and says, “I do rather like it when you do not listen to me.”  He moves forward a little, looking up at Alistair, and slides a hand around his waist.  “Please, Alistair.  Can you forgive me?”

“Of course,” Alistair murmurs, and moves forward, pulling Zevran into a kiss.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the sun rises.

“Zevran?”

There is the sound of a short laugh, then Alistair hears bare feet on the floorboards.  He feels Zevran’s weight as he gets onto the bed, then a cool hand slides under the covers, around his hip to caress the line of hair under his navel.  Alistair laughs, tries to wriggle away, and Zevran chuckles.  “You cannot escape that easily, Alistair.  Wake up.  You’re missing it.”

 

“Who said I wanted to escape?” Alistair yawns, then asks, “Missing what?”

“Come with me,” Zevran murmurs in his ear, and Alistair shivers at the low, seductive murmur of his voice.  “Come with me, mi amor, and I’ll show you.”

“Can’t you show me here?” Alistair mumbles half-heartedly, but he’s moving already, throwing the covers of Zevran’s bed off himself, rubbing his eyes before watching Zevran stroll to the large sliding window which bounds a rickety fire escape.  Zevran slides the window up, lifts his leg to climb out, and Alistair laughs.  “You’re butt naked!” he says, “Do the neighbours not mind?”

“I have never had any complaints,” Zevran tells him smoothly, smirking over his shoulder.  “Come on.”

“Alright,” Alistair says, but gathers his boxers and his sweatshirt from the floor.  He struggles with them, then follows Zevran, clambering awkwardly out the window as well.  The fire escape clangs loudly and Zevran chuckles.  

“You will never be a burglar,” he says fondly as Alistair settles beside him.  They are facing the east, Alistair sees, and the horizon is painted with a deep swathe of brilliant orange.  The undersides of the clouds, scattered into various shapes after yesterday’s uniform grey, are all luminous purples and pinks.  The whole sky seems radiant, made new, and Alistair sighs.  He catches the scent of coffee on the light wind, and looks down to see two cups with steam swirling from them.  “When did you get time to make that?” he asks.

 

“In between watching you sleep and waking you up,” Zevran answers cryptically, then tucks a cigarette between his lips.  He looks quizzically at Alistair, who shrugs, then tells him, “It’s bad for you.”  Zevran chuckles, lights the cigarette and takes a deep drag.

“I know,” he says, then winks.  “We cannot all be such models of good behaviour and sense as yourself, mi amor.  Where would the fun be in that?”

Alistair snorts, and turns back to watch the sunrise.  The dawn air is chilly, and he is grateful for his sweatshirt; he looks at Zevran’s bare chest wonderingly, but refrains from asking.  Honestly, he is just too glad to be here with Zevran to feel too concerned about anything at the moment.  It had felt too soon that Zevran had pulled out of their kiss yesterday; but to Alistair’s relief it was only to invite him home, to Zevran’s apartment.  “I regret that last time you were there, I did not give you the tour,” Zevran had told him, and squeezed his hip gently.  After they had arrived, Zevran had put the small television on, and together they had watched as the grainy reception of the local news had shown them aerial views of people running through the streets, of cars on fire.  For a long time, they had sat together in silence, holding hands, then Alistair had felt his phone buzz.   _ R U OK? _ was all the message read - it was from Surana.  As quickly as he could, Alistair texted back,  _ yes, you? are you with Morrigan? _

 

_ yes. _ came the response only a few seconds later _ , got out b4 guard pushed us. Mo is a bit hurt, bt ok.  u at home?   _

_ not yet _ , he texted back,  _ staying with a friend. _

_ be mysterious then, _ came the next text,  _ gonna take a few days off, look after Mo.  Cya when I cya, k? _

_ okay _ , Alistair replied,  _ stay in touch alright? _

_ alright bossy, _ Surana texted, and Alistair laughed.  He felt Zevran’s gaze upon him and murmured, “Just Surana.  I’m going to text my housemate, tell him I’m alright.  He’s… uh, expecting me home.”

Alistair had looked up briefly, glancing at Zevran’s sly smile.  “Alistair,” Zevran had purred, “If I am not mistaken, did you just… invite yourself to stay the night?”

And he had swallowed hard and shrugged, then grinned ruefully as Zevran laughed and turned, putting his head on Alistair’s shoulder.  Alistair quickly tapped out his message to Cullen, telling him he was safe but staying away, and then put his phone away.  

 

The orange along the horizon has shifted and grown; much of the purple lining the clouds has gone, replaced by a beautiful golden red.  Alistair takes a deep breath and sighs, then sips his coffee slowly.  The scent of Zevran’s cigarette makes him smile a little, then his brow creases in concern.  “What do you think will happen now?” he asks softly.

Zevran sighs.  “Things will get worse,” he says, and his tone of voice is sad.  “For a time, at least.  But we will keep fighting, and slowly, they will get better.  That is what I believe, at least.”

“Really?” Alistair asks, turning to look at him with a worried expression, “Do you really think so?”

Zevran smiles, turning to look at him.  “Yes,” he says simply, “I do.  If I did not, there would not be much point in continuing to fight, would there?”

“I suppose not,” Alistair says, and shakes his head.  “But…”

 

“Alistair, look,” Zevran points to the horizon with the hand holding his cigarette, then with his other hand, reaches down and takes Alistair’s hand.  “Every morning, the sun rises, does it not?  Every morning, no matter what happens, the sun comes up, over the horizon, making all this beauty that people very rarely bother to look at.  There is magic all around us - in nature, in love, in ourselves.  If we believe it can be done, and we strive to it, then I am sure it will happen.  Perhaps not in our lifetime - what is one lifetime to the sun? - but it will happen.  People are weak and foolish, and they wish for an easy life.”  Alistair watches as Zevran’s throat works, as a momentary expression of guilt crosses his features, “But in the end, if something is worth having, it is worth fighting for.”

 

And Alistair nods, and smiles as he squeezes Zevran’s hand.  “You’re right,” he says softly, “Or at least, it feels right.  That does, I mean.  I… I don’t know if I’ll ever understand this, or feel like I know enough about it.  But… sometimes, I suppose, that’s a good thing.  To know, at least, that I have… boundaries, things that I just… can’t tolerate.  To say that I can fight for something.  That I have something in my life that I believe in, and that I’ll fight for it.”  He smiles again and tells Zevran, “That I have someone to fight with.”

Zevran chuckles a little.  “It is not the fights I am interested in.  It is the making up afterwards,” he grins, and Alistair laughs and shakes his head.

“You know what I meant,” he says.  Zevran inclines his head, finishes his cigarette and grinds it out into an empty plastic flowerpot.  For a moment, Alistair considers telling Zevran that he loves him, then smiles - it is not the right time, he can feel it.  But the time will come again - as sure as the sun will rise.  He moves a little closer to Zevran, and together they watch as the first rays of the new day come over the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Earlgreyer, to whom this work is dedicated, for being such an awesome, lovely, sweet and adorable person to write for. Earl, I am so glad that we met - you utterly changed the way I think about Zevran, and I am eternally grateful. I really hope that you enjoy this story, at least as much as I enjoyed writing it.


End file.
